


we'll see the same sun on the rise

by dreamweavernyx



Category: Critical Role (Web Series), His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: ADVENTURE!, F/M, adrenaline!, and life is great, brief appearances of a ton of side characters, brief discussion of flashbacks tw, brief mention of rape tw, but really only in passing, but very mild, critrole cast in the his dark materials universe, everyone has daemons, mild spoilers for most of campaign 1, now complete with author's commentary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-09-20 07:12:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 86,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17018133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamweavernyx/pseuds/dreamweavernyx
Summary: Vex puts down the cup, and then notices the letter on the table. “What’s that?”“Haven’t opened it, but my best guess is that it’s from Father.”She reaches for the envelope, flips it over, and snorts inelegantly. “Of course it is,” she says dryly. “The wax seal’s got the crest of Syngorn College on it. He hasn’t talked to us in almost ten years – how on earth did he know we were here?”“My best guess? He heard a pair of twin adventurers blew up a building in the east last week, and figured it was us.”~Explorers-for-hire Vax'ildan and Vex'halia Vessar receive a request to track down an elusive artifact, and find themselves tangled in events more complex than they could imagine.No prior knowledge of His Dark Materials required; all necessary concepts are explained in the story itself.





	1. take it to a morning / where the fields are painted gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beginnings: The twins receive a mysterious letter, improvise their way across the northern end of the continent, and somehow stumble into trouble without even trying.
> 
> Chapter title from [Bloom by The Paper Kites](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8inJtTG_DuU&gl=SG&hl=en-GB).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief primer of His Dark Materials concepts that would be useful for understanding this story:
> 
>  **Daemons.** Daemons are the physical manifestation of a person's soul. They generally cannot stray too far from their human without both daemon and human feeling pain; it is also taboo to touch another person's daemon, as this is considered a great violation of privacy. One exception to this is between lovers - touching your lover's daemon may be considered a form of intimacy. The daemon of a child is free to shift into different forms; upon reaching maturity, the daemon will "settle" into a single permanent form, usually one that represents their human's personality.
> 
>  **Gyptians.** A nomadic ethnic group of boat-dwelling people.
> 
>  **Tartars.** A nomadic ethnic group of warrior-people who dwell largely in the north.
> 
> Some other concepts will be introduced throughout the story and will be explained in the course of the narrative itself. There will also be an accompanying Extended Author's Commentary to this story, but as it's rather spoilery it shall be posted once this story is complete.

It’s morning when the letter comes, delivered to the inn where they’ve been staying and recuperating for the better part of the week. Vex is still asleep, but Vax is already trying to breathe in more fumes of his morning coffee when Nera, perched on his shoulder, notices the innkeeper pointing a man in travelling clothes his way.

 

“Vax,” she hisses, nipping his ear. “Heads up.”

 

The man is nondescript, really, dressed in a flat cap and dirt-stained clothes that’s pretty much the unofficial uniform of mail-runners, pushing a slightly crumpled parchment envelope across the table to Vax. _Vax’ildan and Vex’halia Vessar_ is written on the front in a careful hand, just a touch too ostentatiously curly as to give away the letter’s origin.

 

Vax has spent many years of his life watching his father teach him calligraphy, seeing his father write his papers in his poncy handwriting. It’s what gives him pause, and the letter is still sitting in front of him, untouched, when Vex and Trinket stumble out of their ground-floor room, blinking sleep out of their eyes.

 

(It’s quite clear that they’ve been here a while, because the innkeeper no longer eyes the giant bear daemon lumbering in Vex’s footsteps with trepidation, only giving Vex a nod before going back to his business.)

 

“Hey, sister,” Vax says, as Nera flutters over to land on Trinket’s head in greeting. “Morning,” Trinket grunts for the both of them, as Vex goes straight for the coffee and downs an entire cup like it’s a shot.

 

“My broken arm’s pretty much healed,” she says, grabbing for the half-drunk cup in front of Vax, which has been going cold, and drinking that too, “and we’re running very low on coin. We should move, soon, find a new job.”

 

She puts down his cup, and then notices the letter on the table. “What’s that?”

 

“Haven’t opened it, but my best guess is that it’s from Father.”

 

Vex reaches for the envelope, flips it over, and snorts inelegantly. “Of course it is,” she says dryly. “The wax seal’s got the crest of Syngorn College on it. He hasn’t talked to us in almost ten years – how on earth did he know we were here?”

 

“My best guess? He heard a pair of twin adventurers blew up a building in the east last week, and figured it was us.”

 

Vex scowls. “How was I supposed to know ambaric lights explode if you fire an arrow into them?”

 

She studies the letter for a while more, eyeing the swooping curls of her name and running her fingers over the raised tree design stamped into the wax seal on the back, the crest of the College they’d grown up in. Then, she takes a deep breath, and rips the letter open.

 

There is a beat of silence while she reads the letter, brow furrowing deeper and deeper the further down the letter she gets.

 

“Well,” she says at length, folding the letter back up. “It seems that we have a job request.”

 

~

 

The letter is scant on details, mentioning only an urgent request from a friend of their father Syldor Vessar. The Scholar in question is resident at Emon College, a two-day walk up from the inn in Stillbend where they’d been staying, but despite the short journey Vex still spends an uncomfortable amount of time nervously worrying strands of her hair between her fingers.

 

She knows, fundamentally, that not all Scholars are the same, that she doesn’t have to worry about making the same good impression to a Scholar who’s seeking a favour of her and her brother. But old habits die hard – she remembers childhood days being dragged into the College from the riverbanks where she and her brother played, to be roughly showered and stuffed into uncomfortably-starched clothing, being made to sit silently at dinner tables while Father talked shop with his colleagues. She remembers squirming uncomfortably while an old Scholar droned on about elementary particles or something or other, meeting Vax’s equally bored eye from across the table.

 

(She remembers the sting of a slap too many, in private quarters after dinner, and a disappointed voice saying: “Your mother ruined the two of you, letting you run wild instead of learn like proper College children should.” And it’s that sting, that bitterness, that gives rise to her trepidation.)

 

 _Vax’ildan and Vex’halia_ , the letter had said. _My views on this mercenary career of yours remain the same, and I still desire that you return to the College one day to pursue a worthwhile career. Nevertheless, an old friend of mine has informed me that she wishes to hire a couple of mercenaries for an urgent task of great importance. I have informed her to expect you within the week._

 

Vax doesn’t seem bothered – every time she glances over he’s in quiet conversation with Nera, his daemon picking at loose strands falling out of his neat ponytail; or otherwise gazing into the distance while idly flipping a dagger in his right hand.

 

Trinket pushes his wet nose into her hair, and whuffs out a breath of warm air.

 

“You know you needn’t worry, right?” he murmurs to her. “We’re better than Syldor. We’ve got nothing we need to prove to him. Or any other Scholar.”

 

He’s right. Of course he is – he’s the other half of her soul, her better half. Vex sighs.

 

“Thanks,” she says, scratching him behind the ear.

 

~

 

Vax has seen the Master of Emon College, an imposing-looking Scholar by the name of Uriel Tal’Dorei, at one of his father’s dinners before, but he has never been to Emon College. It does not have the same cold, white marble walls as the Syngorn College of Vax’s memory, but it is magnificent nonetheless, redwood and cedar gilded in gold and intricate wood-carvings, the warmth of a home that was lacking in Syngorn College.

 

“Vax’ildan Vessar, here to see Scholar Allura Vysoren,” he tells the guard at the front gate, as Vex is ogling the warm beauty of the buildings and is thus presently indisposed. “She should be expecting us.”

 

The guard gives him a suspicious look, and Vax brandishes the letter from their father in response. With a sigh, the guard turns to his companion and gestures; the other man walks into the College. The first guard, however, stays outside, hand on his sword, and casts a wary glance over at the massive brown bear daemon following at Vex’s shoulder.

 

Within 5 minutes or so, the doors to the College open again, revealing the second guard and a person dressed in the long blue robes of a Scholar. It’s a woman, but much younger than Vax, who’s used to imagining Scholars as doddery old men who sit in chairs all day, was expecting. Her long blonde hair falls in two long braids down her front, and a red panda daemon is curled around her shoulders.

 

“Hello,” she says to Vax as she approaches. “My name is Allura Vysoren – I was told that you are seeking me?”

 

Vax hands her the letter, even as Vex sidles up behind him. “Our father said you were expecting us for an urgent task you needed completed.”

 

Allura brightens at that, skimming the letter briefly before handing it back to him. “Syldor did mention that his children did exploratory work, yes. I was not sure if you would be able to come, however. Please, come in.”

 

“I don’t think he gave us a choice,” Vex says dryly, coming up from behind. “Vex’halia Vessar, a pleasure. What’s this urgent task you have for us?”

 

“Inside,” says Allura. “It is… something I would prefer to discuss in private, if you do not mind.”

 

She leads them up into the College, and down a couple of hallways lit softly with ambaric lights, before stopping and showing them into what appears to be some sort of office. As Vex throws herself into one of the leather seats and Vax takes another, Allura closes and locks the door securely, before coming back around to take a seat across the both of them at her cluttered desk.

 

“So,” she says, looking at the both of them. “About a month ago, a good friend of mine, Kima, left Emon, with an important artifact of our College that was due to be delivered to Vasselheim University in the northeast. It is at best a two-week journey, but the Master there has informed me that the artifact has yet to arrive. Worse, I have not been receiving letters from Kima updating me on her journey for the past two weeks.”

 

She shuffles through her papers and pulls out a faded photogram, sliding it across the table. It depicts a scarred young woman with light hair in a messy bun, the faint glint of armour visible below her cloak. Vax studies it, committing the face to memory, before passing it back. Allura, however, pushes it back towards him. “Keep it,” she says. “It might help when you ask people if they’ve seen her.”

 

“The artifact _must_ be retrieved, as it would be a great loss to the academic community as a whole were it to fall in unscrupulous hands,” Allura continues. “If you are willing to do this for us, I have a fifth of the money we have prepared for this job, which I can give you as an advance.”

 

Theres a jingle, and a heavy-looking bag is produced from a drawer. This time, Vex’s hand shoots out to grab it before Vax can blink. She hefts it, pauses, and sets it down again with a _thunk_.

 

“Scholar Vysoren-”

 

“Allura, please.”

 

“Very well,” Vex frowns and prods the bag again. “Allura, what is this artifact? Why is it so important that Emon College is willing to pay nearly five year’s worth of comfortable living expenses for its return?”

 

Vax barely manages to hold in his shocked intake of breath, and Nera flutters down to the table to peer into the bag. She has no obvious reaction, but Vax knows how avian body language works by now, given Nera’s preferred forms, and he can tell as she turns to look at him that she’s surprised by the amount in the bag as well.

 

Allura looks conflicted. “This- the fewer people know about this artifact being in our possession, the better-”

 

“How will we know what to look for if we don’t know what it is?” Vex interjects.

 

There’s a pause, as Allura worries her lip between her teeth for a second. On her shoulder still, her red panda daemon props his paws up and gazes directly at Vax, and then at Vex.

 

“…Do you know what an alethiometer is?” asks the daemon at last, his voice a raspy tenor. As he says this, Vex gasps; in the same instant, Allura’s fingers tighten on the table; “ _Drake!_ ” she hisses.

 

The daemon looks unrepentant. “The girl is right; asking them to search for the artifact without telling them what it is, is like asking them to search for a needle in a haystack. And they look trustworthy.”

 

“An _alethiometer_ ,” Vex whispers, almost reverently. “I didn’t know there were any left.”

 

Vax scours his memory of dull lessons, trying to remember what an alethiometer is, but comes up blank. Some of the confusion must show on his face, because Allura turns to him, sighs, and says: “An alethiometer is also known as a truth-teller – one who has learned enough of the symbols and their infinite meanings can use it to divine the truth of any question. And yes,” she turns to Vex, “three of the six ever made were destroyed or lost, but the remaining three have been kept in circuit among the Colleges. This is what Kima was to deliver to Vasselheim University.”

 

“How will we know where to find it?” Trinket speaks up. “Northeast is a vague direction, and the land is vast.”

 

At this, Allura nods, and pulls out a bundle of letters and a map. “Kima sent me regular letters in the first week or so of her journey. Using them, I tried to chart her path, to figure out where she may have disappeared.”

 

Indeed, there is a line etched in red ink on the map, starting out from Emon College and heading northeast. “Across the sea,” Vex groans. “And then skirting a mountain range. How are we going to accomplish that?”

 

“For the mountains, I believe Kima was intending to travel on horseback, though they may also be easily traversed by airship,” Allura says amusedly. “Sea travel might be easier. In fact, if you head down to the tavern just outside the College grounds, next to the Botanical Gardens, you may find just what you need.”

 

~

 

They bid Allura goodbye, and take the map and bag of coin. The tavern isn’t too hard to find – Nera’s sharp eyes spot it as she coasts up above, and she swoops back down to tell them as they approach.

 

Inside the tavern, jaunty music plays in a corner as tables of rowdy customers clink their glasses of ale. Vax stops to the side of the doorway, just inside the building, clinging to the shadows of the wall. “How are we going to find a sailor in this mess?” he hisses to Vex.

 

She laughs, and waves a hand at him. “We’ll manage it, brother. It can’t be too hard.”

 

Except, it sort of is. Vax watches his sister make a full round of most of the tables in the tavern, before stomping back towards him, looking highly disgruntled.

 

“As it turns out, there’s been a storm at sea recently. There are a couple of sailors in here but they’ve either lost their boats, or are not keen on returning to choppy waters for a while yet,” she grumbles to him as she drags him into the tavern, and over to the counter seats, where she motions to the man behind the bar for a drink. “I thought having Trinket along might intimidate them into agreeing to take us out, but they didn’t seem to give two shits about his size or anything.”

 

“I thought Allura said we’d be able to find a sailor easily in the tavern,” frowns Vax. “How are we going to get across the sea?”

 

Vex opens her mouth to reply, but then her eyes suddenly widen as they look at something just past Vax. Before he can react, he feels a large hand come down on his shoulder, and he resists the instinctual urge to whip around and kick up at his assailant’s groin.

 

“You lookin’ for a boat?” rumbles a deep voice behind them.

 

“…Yes?” squeaks Vex, looking more unsure than Vax usually sees her. “Um. Could you maybe let go of my brother?”

 

“Oh. Sorry.” The hand lifts, and Vax turns to see possible the biggest man he has ever seen in his life. Almost two heads taller than himself, with a shaved head covered in tattoos Vax would swear he’s seen on the heads of the Tartars in the north, but dressed in the simple dyed cotton clothing of the townsfolk here, is the man who’d spoken, now looking slightly sheepish. “M’name’s Grog. This here’s Phillip.” He gestures, and a large white dog nods his head, tail wagging once.

 

“Anyways. I heard you was lookin’ for sailors, to take you across the sea. My buddy Pike, she’s got a boat, and she’s good at sailin’. She could help you.”

 

“Yes, of course,” says Vex after a beat; Vax, still stunned by the sheer size of the man and the coincidental timing of his appearance, says nothing.

 

Grog brightens instantly. “I could take you to her now.”

 

Vex squints at him, then at her half-finished pint. “Oh, why the hell not,” she says dryly, and then tilts her head back and chugs the rest of it in one gulp. Grog looks deeply impressed. (Vax, having not wished to day-drink before lunch, doesn’t have a similar issue; he quietly slips a coin for Vex’s drink onto the bar, and brings up the rear as they exit the tavern.)

 

The large man leads them out of the tavern and through a winding series of alleys. The walk makes Vax slightly antsy, and he’s just beginning to wonder if trusting a complete stranger on the faith that his friend who owned a boat was real might not have been the best idea, when Grog makes one more right turn and they are walking towards one of the large canals that flow through the town, filled with Gyptian boats all docked in a line. Grog leads them to a large boat painted a sky blue, where a diminutive young Gyptian woman with white-blonde hair is hanging laundry out on the deck. A honey badger daemon at her feet clutches clothes-pins in its claws, handing them up to her as she goes down the line.

 

“Pike!” Grog calls as they approach. She looks up, with a clothes-pin in her mouth, and yelps in surprise as her eyes slides from him to Vax and Vex. Quickly, she drops the pin into a basket at her feet and wipes her hands on her apron.

 

“Hi, Grog,” she says. “I hope you didn’t kidnap these people or anything.”

 

“I would _never_ ,” Grog replies, with all the indignant tones of a person who has been caught doing that exact thing before. Vax considers the possibility, and then decides that he does not want to know.

 

Vex steps forward. “We’re sorry if we’re intruding. We’re looking for passage up across the sea, and your friend told us you have a boat. I’m Vex, and this is my brother Vax.”

 

“Pike Trickfoot,” says the Gyptian woman, hopping off the boat to land on the sidewalk in front of them. Up close, Vax realises that she’s a good head shorter than Vex. “This is Seren,” she continues, gesturing to the badger still on the boat; he dips his head in greeting as Trinket rumbles a reply.

 

“You wanted to head out to sea, you said?”

 

“Yes,” says Vax. “Is that something you might be able to do?”

 

Pike frowns, turning to study her boat before turning back to them. “My boat’s not really built for the rough seas, truth be told; it’s more of a river-boat. Where exactly are you headed, though?”

 

Vax reaches for his pack, where the map is kept, but Vex holds out a hand to stop him. “If you don’t mind, could we maybe… take this inside?”

 

“Oh,” says Pike, “of course! Come right this way, I’ve got some biscuits left from the weekend trading.” She gestures to Grog, who leaps up onto the boat with barely any trouble and hauls a wooden plank out, placing it as a ramp from the road up to the boat.

 

Vex quirks a smile at Vax, and follows right behind Pike up into the interior of the boat.

  
~

 

Pike’s only met these curious travellers for all of ten minutes, but she finds herself warming to them. There’s something fragile barely visible in the eyes of the female twin, something guarded in the male twin, that calls to the instinct in Pike to protect, like the instinct that once drove her to take Grog into her home all those years ago. Already, she’s pushed cups of steaming chamomile and a plate of biscuits at them, barely resisting the urge to wrap them in warm blankets and give them a hug because, well, they’re still _strangers_ , and she doesn’t doubt they won’t take such casual familiarity well.

 

So instead, she listens to their request, studies the map that the male twin, Vax, produces for her. Seren clambers over the table for a better look, and Pike lets him; he’s always been the better navigator of the two of them, anyway. “Well,” he says after a good five minutes of consideration, and Pike notices Vex perk up instantly. “The good news is, we can get to Westruun, which is where you need to go, even on our small little river-boat.”

 

A slow half-smile appears on Vex’s face, but Vax frowns, his fingers steepled below his chin. It is his raven daemon, however, who speaks: “Is there bad news?”

 

“Well,” Seren says, “our boat is, ultimately, a river-boat, which means that we’d need to head to Westruun by going from river to river. If we tried to go onto the sea, I’m not confident that the boat can survive the rougher weather out there. It’d take you a bit longer to get there.”

 

“How long more?” Vex asks. “Time’s of the essence for us.”

 

Seren looks back at her, a question in his eyes, and Pike leans forward. He might be the better navigator, but Pike’s been handling this ship when she was twelve, steering it while her grandfather watches over her with a gimlet eye, and she’s the most familiar with what it can do when pushed to its limits. She peers over at the map, and Seren lightly traces the river-path he’s found on the map, slightly winding but not too much of a detour.

 

“On sea, with a sea-boat, you’d probably need a good three days’ sail,” Pike muses. “On the rivers… maybe slightly more than a week, if we docked every night?”

 

Grog shifts in his seat. “What if you and me switch out, Pike?” he asks. “We could sail all night, too. It’ll be like a secret mission adventure.”

 

Pike’s breath catches for a moment, remembering when she and Grog were younger, lying on the deck of her grandfather’s boat and pretending they were grand pirates on an adventure, sailing by the stars. “Yes,” she breathes. “Yes, it would. Well,” she continues, considering, “if you and I pulled six-hour shifts, I suppose we could try for five days, give or take half a day or so.”

 

“That’s fine,” says Vex. “That’s more than fine – that’d be _great_. Thank you so much.”

 

“Don’t thank me,” smiles Pike. “Just keep me and Grog company while we sail, we’d appreciate the extra pair of eyes on lookout, especially if one of us is going to be sleeping while the other steers.”

 

“We can- we can pay you for your trouble,” insists Vex, making as though to reach for her own pack. Pike sees the tremble in her fingers, recognises the look of someone who’s had to fight for every coin to her name, and her protective instincts flare again.

 

“It’s alright,” she says, putting out a hand to stall Grog. “Taking us with you on your adventure is payment enough. Cover the cost of our food, and we’ll be even.”

 

~

 

Grog doesn’t know what to make of the twins that he and Pike have agreed to ferry through the river systems, but he knows the glint in Pike’s eyes that she gets when she wants to take care of someone, and so he accepts the twins in their routine without question.

 

He likes the female twin, Vex, a lot more than he does Vax. When she hangs out with him on his sailing shift, she leans against the railing of the boat and tells him stories of the adventures she and her brother have been on. She watches Phillip gambol on the deck with amusement, and a couple of times he’s scrabbled close enough for her bear daemon to take a playful swipe.

 

(A _bear_ daemon. If it were anyone else but Pike, Grog would be raising serious concerns about bring a big-ass _bear_ onto their ship. He’s not good at mathematics or physics or whatever it is people use to figure out when their boats are going to sink, but even he knows that a bear is heavy, and their boat is _tiny_.

 

But Pike’s pretty much taken them under her wing, so he keeps quiet. It kind of helps that Trinket takes to paddling behind the boat when the weather’s good.)

 

She’s balanced precariously on the rail of the ship today, swinging her legs idly and staring out ahead as he carefully navigates through a narrower stretch of the river, tongue poking out between his teeth. It’s not an area he and Pike have come to often, but their route at this point is just following the river for a solid half a day before they meet any intersections – it’s mindless, but calming.

 

And then, all of a sudden, it’s not calming, as a rock whizzes just past his head and clatters onto the deck. Startled, Grog turns to see a couple of young men in tattered clothing, one pulling back a slingshot and the other one holding a burning torch that he’s about to throw.

 

Before he can so much as yell, a blur flies through the air, and the man with the torch yells and drops the torch into the river, as a crossbow bolt embeds itself in his shoulder.

 

“Bandits?” asks Vex wryly, still (inexplicably) perched on the railing, but now with a crossbow in one hand, the other reaching for another bolt.

 

“Hungry people, maybe,” says Grog, squinting out at the unscathed man on the bank, now looking at the arrow in his friend’s shoulder in shock. “Methinks they don’t see many boats around here parts.”

 

Phillip clambers up and places both his paws on the railing, staring out at the man as he lifts himself to his full height. Slowly, his lips curl, and he lets out a low, rumbling growl. Behind him, Trinket slowly lumbers up, and echoes Phillip’s growl, baring his teeth.

 

The man looks at the two daemons now staring at him from the boat, and then quickly scoops his own cat-daemon in his arms and runs. His friend, staggering to his feet with the arrow still stuck in his shoulder, gives dazed chase, and they are once more left alone in the quiet river.

 

“Well,” says Vex, stowing her crossbow away again. “Let’s hope they didn’t bring reinforcements, shall we, darling?”

 

For a moment, Grog isn’t entirely sure whether she’s talking to him or to Trinket, but then she turns and nods to him and Phillip. “Thanks for the assist,” she smiles.

 

“You were pretty cool yourself,” Grog replies, and she socks him in the shoulder playfully.

 

“All the quiet was making me antsy,” she says. “It was a good break.”

 

~

 

They reach the first town along the river in a couple of days, a moderately large town called Daxio. Grog volunteers to stay behind to look after the ship, and so it’s with shaky sea-legs that Vex and Vax stumble out onto the dock and into town, Pike on their heels.

 

It doesn’t take them long to find a tavern, where they each buy a drink. Vex waves down the innkeep and pulls out the photogram. “Have you seen this woman?” she asks. “She’s a friend of ours, and we’ve been looking for her.”

 

The innkeep, an elderly woman, peers down at the photogram, as does her grey terrier daemon, both with equally rheumy eyes. “Yes,” she says after a while. “I do believe I saw her passing through town, less than a month ago. Gold armour kind of scratched up, and a sword almost as big as she. Curious girl, that one.”

 

“Thank you,” Vex breathes – she honestly hadn’t been expecting much from the innkeep, who’d looked old enough that memory would be a serious problem. “Did she happen to say where she was going next?”

 

The innkeep thinks again, then shakes her head. “No, I’m sorry, dear. She looked to be in _quite_ the rush.”

 

“That’s all right,” Vax says, resting his chin on Vex’s shoulder from behind. She scowls and swats at his face without looking. “Thank you, ma’am.”

 

She beams up at them, pats Vex’s cheek, and then bustles back into the noisy crowd of the tavern. Vex sighs, and stows the photogram away again. “I guess heading on to Westruun is still our best bet, then,” she sighs.

 

“I realise you never mentioned,” Pike pipes up from next to her. “Why are you looking for this friend of yours?”

 

As Vex is about to open her mouth and answer, she notices a flash of black out of the corner of her eye. A man has sat himself at the end of the bar, a good three or four seats away from them. He’s doing a fairly good job of pretending like he isn’t interested in them, but Vex has pretended to be the uninterested bar patron in enough of their adventures and jobs that she knows how the deal works. She catches his sideways glance in their direction, and sighs.

 

“I’ll tell you later, Pike,” she says instead. “Probably Grog should know as well, in any case, and I would hate to tell the story twice.”

 

Vax looks up as she says this, a concerned frown crinkling his brow, and Vex lets her eyes slide meaningfully towards the man at the bar. His head cocks to the side, and his right hand comes up to hip level and crooks into a hand symbol she recognises: _problem?_

 

She shakes her head, signs _not yet_. Vax nods and straightens, as Nera begins to preen his hair, projecting an image of disinterest.

 

“Well,” she says to Pike, tipping the dregs of her ale into her mouth. “Should we buy some food and get back to Grog?”

 

“Of course,” says Pike. “We can go to the market! I’ve heard it’s good here.”

 

They leave the tavern, and Vex is tense for a while, but eventually relaxes when she realises the man from the bar is not following them. Vax sidles up next to her. “He stared at you when you pulled out the photogram,” he says quietly. “And when the innkeep mentioned the big sword. We’ve got to be careful.”

 

“Right back at you,” she murmurs at the same volume, hoping not to alert Pike to their discussion.

 

Eventually, they make it back to the boat with two loaves of fresh, crusty bread in their hands, and a good number of packages of salt-cured pork and beef. As Grog helps Vax begin to put the food away in the kitchen, Pike takes Vex aside.

 

“I saw that man looking weirdly at you at the bar,” she says. “This… adventure that you’re having, is it a secret? Because you didn’t seem comfortable saying it where that man could hear, and if it’s a secret you don’t have to tell me. I was just curious.”

 

Vex pauses, almost says _no_ , remembering the urgent look in Allura’s eyes and what she’d once read about the rarity of alethiometers. But there’s a look in Pike’s eyes that speaks of trustworthiness, and a feeling deep in her gut that Pike might be an important part of this journey at some point in the future.

 

“No, dear,” says Vex. “It _is_ secret, but… I want you to know. Do you… have you heard of an alethiometer?”

 

Pike frowns for a moment. “Only in stories,” she says slowly. “And not much else besides that it’s a compass made of gold, really.”

 

“Well. That’s what our friend has in her possession, so we need to get her back before something bad happens to it. Or her.” Vex tucks her hair behind her ear, and grins down at Pike. “But this’ll be our secret, okay? The fewer who know, the better, really.”

 

Pike laughs slightly nervously, and for a moment Vex feels a little guilty at having unloaded such a massive surprise onto the other woman. But then Pike nods her head, and straightens a little, lifts her pinky and offers it to Vex. “Promise,” she says.

 

~

 

They get to Westruun without much issue, and the river ends in this town, flows out to the ocean in a large delta. There’s a small community of Gyptians living here as well, and Vax is perched on the railing, watching Pike as she carefully maneuvers the boat through the town, looking for a place to anchor the boat.

 

“I used to come from Westruun,” she explains as she searches through the familiar canals and streets for an empty spot. “My grandfather might still be here, actually. He’s the one who taught me to sail my first boat.”

 

They go down another two canals before Seren, peering out over the deck with his claws curled gently around the railings, gasps. “Pike,” he says excitedly. “There, to the right and down the small alleyway!”

 

She looks in the direction his snout is pointing, and notices a brief flash of faded green. There, slowly bobbing up and down in time with the rippling of the river, is a very familiar boat. Its hull is still covered in the green and blue paint she had put on when she was ten years old, now faded with age and riddled with water-spots. But she would recognise it anywhere, the cozy little boat with a striped pattern going up the railings, a little jaunty flag affixed to the top, and a carved wooden rocking-chair perched on the deck.

 

“That’s Grandpa’s boat!” she says to Vax, excitedly. “Tell you what: you and Vex go around the town, and do what you need to. Come back here in the evening to find us – my grandfather’s a good cook, and I’m sure I can convince him to cook up a good Gyptian feast for us. It’ll be better than anything Grog and I can cook or make with salt pork, that’s for sure.”

 

Vax laughs and acquiesces, heading belowdeck to fetch his sister while Nera stays up top, looking around and cataloguing landmarks. Seeing her perched there without her human is a slightly disconcerting experience for Pike, who has grown up with Seren always within arm’s reach, but she remembers that her boat is small and that in theory, Vax isn’t that far away from his daemon.

 

“Easy,” murmurs Seren, sensing her discomfort. He nudges his snout into her hand, and she tightens her fingers in his fur, just a little.

 

“I hope Grandpa doesn’t mind that I essentially just invited strangers over without asking,” she whispers back, and Seren barks a laugh. Not soon after, Vax and Vex appear back up top, vaulting over the side of the boat to land on the sidewalk like a pair of trained acrobats. Grog brings up the rear from where he was resting and chatting to Vex.

 

“We’re here?” he asks. Pike points to the faded boat and Grog squints in that direction for a second, before he brightens. “That’s Wilhand’s boat, innit? Are we goin’ to visit him?”

 

“Yeah, we are,” she says, as she watches the twins walk off, Trinket looking behind to give them one last nod. “Say, Grog. What are we going to do. after this?”

 

“…Eat dinner?”

 

“No,” Pike laughs. “I mean- They asked us to bring them here, and we did. Do we just…head home now? Head back to Emon?”

 

Even as she says this, she feels a little pang of sadness at the thought of going back to their peaceful life on the river. She’d only been with the twins for less than a week, but it had been a rather interesting week, and it had been nice to have more company.

 

“We could go with them,” Seren points out, “see some more adventure.”

 

“We couldn’t _possibly_ impose, Vex said that their mission was super important-”

 

“Pike,” Grog rumbles, sitting down on the deck to look up at her. “You know Phillip and I will follow you, right? If you wanna to go on an adventure, we’re goin’ with you.”

 

Pike feels her resolve crumble, a little. “But what if it’s dangerous? I know you can hit things with that sword of yours you think I don’t know you’ve still got hidden below the bed. But I can’t do much.”

 

“Vex can _shoot_ things,” Phillip contributes, padding forward to lay his head down over Grog’s knee. “We saw her, the other day. And that Vax is slippery. We’ll be safe with them.”

 

Pike sighs.

 

“Well,” she says at last, “why don’t we go and say hi to Grandpa first, and tell him we’re coming for dinner? Then we can go walk around for a bit, and think about this.”

 

~

 

Wilhand is ecstatic to see Pike again, and Grog awkwardly hangs back as the two of them embrace, his golden retriever-daemon padding forward on weary paws to gently lick at Seren’s nose.

 

“And Grog, my boy!” Wilhand says, turning to him. “It’s good to see you well.”

 

“Been doin’ my best,” he says.

 

“Splendid, splendid. Well, granddaughter? What brings you back to little old Westruun?”

 

Grog steps forward to help as Wilhand begins to put his kettle on the fire, and pull out various tins of tea and biscuits to set onto the old rickety kitchen table. “Well,” Pike says, reaching for the stack of plates to begin setting them out. “We met a couple of friends, and they needed to get to Westruun, so we brought them here. Oh!” she gasps, and sets down the plates. “Grandpa, I hope you don’t mind. I told them they could come over for dinner because you’re a _really_ good cook, and we’ve been eating salt pork for days, and-”

 

Wilhand laughs, places a hand on Pike’s hair. “Any friend of you and Grog is welcome here,” he says warmly. “We should be able to just squeeze two more around the table, no worries.”

 

“Uh,” Grog interjects. “One of them has a bear daemon.”

 

Wilhand chokes on his tea, just a little. “Well,” he recovers. “ _Most_ of us can squeeze around the table, though the daemon may have to take his meal in the front room. Will you be staying in Westruun for a bit then, Pike? It would be good to have a hand around the boat again.”

 

“Um, actually,” says Pike, sending Grog a little nervous glance. “We were actually thinking of, well, going with our friends. They’re heading further north.”

 

“We were hopin’,” Grog adds, “that we could leave our boat here with you for a bit. They’re goin’ over the sea and mountains, and I don’t think our boat could take it.”

 

There’s silence for a bit as Wilhand ponders this, nose crinkled. “You are a grown woman, Pike,” he says at last, “and I’m not going to stop you from doing anything you want to do. And I know you’ve always wanted to go on an adventure. Just remember to come home.”

 

~

 

“So,” says Vex as they walk away from Pike’s boat. “What are we looking for? Are we just asking around to see if anyone’s seen Kima?”

 

They duck into an alleyway and she unfurls the map. Vax, peering over her shoulder, points: “Kima was last known to be heading up north, towards Whitestone. We’re going to need an airship of some kind, to get over those mountains on the way there.”

 

Vex sighs, and rolls up the map. “Airship it is, then.”

 

Through a somewhat-fortuitous stroke of luck, they find a couple of men at the closest tavern who inform them that there is an aërodock just on the outskirts of town. As they begin to approach it, billowing shapes made of silk begin to appear over the treeline. Vex stops and outright _stares_ , as one of those shapes begins to rise up and float away, a massive balloon of silken cloth with a fire burning below it, a good-sized wicker basket attached to it with two people peering out over its edge.

 

“A _balloon_ ,” she breathes. “I’ve never ridden one of those before.”

 

As they approach, the trees stop, and instead before their eyes is a large patch of bare ground. From time to time, puffs of hot gas seem to shoot up from holes in the ground, and a couple of balloons are strategically propped up to receive this hot air into their cavities, filling them up slowly. At the edge of the field is a small wooden house, with a man in a black coat and hat sitting outside.

 

Vax leads the way towards this man, who on a closer look appears to have some sort of book or ledger on his lap. “Good afternoon,” he greets as they get close. “We’re, uh, looking to hire an aëronaut to take us northward?”

 

The man grunts and looks up at him, and then Vex sees his eyes widen as his gaze slides to her and the massive form of Trinket hulking behind her. “I don’t think any of the men here have a basket big enough for the daemon,” he rasps. “I do apologise.”

 

Vex studies the baskets of the balloons currently being filled. At a glance, they don’t seem to be very big, and she lets out a sigh. Suddenly, though, Nera chirrups, and points her beak towards something half-hidden in the bushes that border the aërodock. Squinting, Vex can make about half of a massive basket, possibly twice or thrice the size of the small ones on the field, and a bundle of grey silks folded over it.

 

“How about that one?” she asks the man, and he hums, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

 

“That’s young de Rolo’s balloon,” he says. “You’ll have to look for him in town, I believe he landed about a week ago to run some errands. But yes, you might be able to get into that one – young de Rolo used to say that he had one of them armoured bears from the north in his balloon, once.”

 

An _armoured bear_. Another thing Vex has heard of only in stories, the strange and fearless warriors from the north. “Well,” she says. “Thank you. How might I find this… de Rolo?”

 

The man shrugs, already losing interest now that there isn’t the promise of immediate business. “I don’t know his habits. But he should be easy to spot; his hair is entirely white, even though he is young, and his daemon is just as white as he is.”

 

That is a rather unhelpful explanation, and Vex scowls at him before sighing and turning around. “I need a drink,” she grumbles, even as Vax murmurs a hasty _thank you_ and follows after her.

 

They make their way to a tavern just five minutes away from the aërodock, Vex throwing herself onto a chair just by the door and waving a barmaid over to order two glasses of ale. Vax settles himself next to her, and begins to peer around the bar as their drinks arrive.

 

“There,” he says five minutes later, startling Vex out of her reverie. He nods towards a corner table deep in the depths of the tavern, right next to the back door, where she can just make out a young man in a long coat, and a shock of bright white hair. “Should we go up to him?”

 

“Lucky,” she says dryly. “Of course. Let’s go.”

 

She picks up her half-drunk ale and heads across the tavern. Trinket stays outside, not wanting to come and squeeze between tables, but they’ve been separated by more distance before, so she feels no discomfort. The man looks up as she approaches, looking wary, and a pure white wolf-daemon that had been napping at his feet begins to get up, the barest hint of a growl forming.

 

“Hello,” says the man in crisp tones. Up close, she can make out his features now – a little sharp and handsome in an aristocratic way, a thin pair of wire-framed spectacles perched on the end of his nose. “Can I help you?”

 

“Are you de Rolo? The man at the aërodock told us to come and find you,” says Vex, pulling out an empty chair from another table and settling into it, facing the young man. Vax leans against the back of the chair, studying the young man thoughtfully.

 

The man looks at them, and his wolf-daemon straightens to attention. “Percival de Rolo, at your service,” he says slowly. “You are looking to engage the services of an aëronaut and a balloon, I presume?”

 

“Vex,” she returns. “We’re looking for a balloon that’s big enough to carry a bear along with some humans. And we’d preferably like to discuss the details with you in private, if you don’t mind.”

 

Percival’s eyebrows shoot up, and he seems to eye them again, as though trying to get a read on them. “Well,” he says. “If it’s business you’d like to discuss, let’s go upstairs. I have a room here, where we can talk.”

 

~

 

The woman, Percy notes, is very curious indeed. He’s seen a few mercenaries and explorers in his time, and the look in her eyes and the way she holds herself reminds him of them – beautiful, but deadly. Her brother, a man who looks almost identical to his sister in his lithe frame and catlike grace, but with a neat ponytail where his sister’s black hair lies in a thick braid down her back, moves behind them like a silent shadow. Together, the pair of them stand out, which makes them interesting.

 

Percy _likes_ interesting.

 

It takes an awkward five minutes as the woman (Vex?) coaxes her large brown bear of a daemon up the tavern’s wooden staircase, but eventually they are sequestered in the small room he has rented for the week.

 

“So,” says Percy, sitting on his bed as Vex takes the one chair in the room and her brother leans by the window, “proper introductions are in order, I believe. I am Percival de Rolo, but you may call me Percy, if you wish. This,” he gestures to Vesper, who wags her tail from side to side as she dips her head, “is Vesper de Rolo, my better half.”

 

“Vex, and the man brooding by the wall is my brother Vax,” she replies, lips quirked in a half smile. “Our daemons are named Trinket and Nera.”

 

“A pleasure. Now, you said you required the services of an aëronaut?”

 

At that, Vex reaches into her pack and unfurls a slightly crinkled sheet of parchment, which appears to be a map of the continent. There is a line picked out in red ink that appears to have been drawn, linking the College-city of Emon up to Westruun, and ending abruptly in the north.

 

“We need to head north,” Vex says, her fingers tracing the path in red. “We are seeking a friend who was headed to Vasselheim, but we last received contact from her when she was en route to Whitestone. We were hoping to perhaps get to Whitestone, and then pick up a fresh lead from there.”

 

Her pointer finger moves to settle on Whitestone, appearing to be just a day’s journey or so from where the red line ends. Percy barely suppresses the shudder as he gazes at the name of a city he never thought he would return to, and Vesper presses her wet nose against his hand in comfort.

 

“Whitestone-” he starts, stops, and then licks his dry lips, clears his throat. “Whitestone is a dead city. There’s been nothing of interest there ever since the Conclave decided to set up a research base there. I can guarantee you that even if your friend made a stop there, they would have left it as fast as they could.”

 

“Still,” replies Vex. “We have no other leads at the moment, so Whitestone is our best bet. Will you be able to take us?”

 

Percy sighs, and his hand instinctively goes out to grab Vesper’s fur, to assure himself that she is really there. For a moment, his memory flashes, and he sees cold metal and a cruel smile, a middle-aged woman in a lab coat laughing as he and Vesper are hauled into separate cages in a cold, white room.

 

“…We can pay you, we’re good for it,” Vex says, watching him but misinterpreting his hesitance. Percy shakes his head to clear it, looks at the map, and then down at Vesper. She gazes back up at him, her blue eyes serious, and she nudges at his hand again.

 

He sighs. “I… normally would prefer not to go in the direction of Whitestone,” he says. “I have unfinished business there that I would rather not come into contact with. But you lot seem interesting, so here’s what I propose: We will take you up towards Whitestone. There is a small town a day’s journey by foot away from Whitestone – I have a friend there who I can leave my balloon with for a bit. We will then bring you up to Whitestone by foot, but I will wait outside the city while you conclude your business. Would you be agreeable to that?”

 

The large bear rumbles in agreement, a second before Vex smiles and nods. “Happy to work with you,” she says. “What rate do you charge?”

 

“Fifteen gold pieces a day should cover it,” replies Percy. “Do you want to set off now?”

 

At this point, Vax, who had been leaning against the wall in silence, stirs, and speaks for the first time in Percy’s presence. “We have a prior appointment with a friend in the city for dinner,” he says quietly, “and I am sure you will need to set up your balloon and get it ready. We can meet you at the aërodock tomorrow at dawn.”

 

“Very well. Dawn, it is.”

 

~

 

Pike and Grog are on the way back from the market street when it happens. They’d gone out after tea to hunt down medicinal herbs – “If we’re going to be adventuring, Grog, I’m going to stock up on things I can use to make a tisane or two.” – and were walking back, paper package tucked into a satchel hanging from Pike’s shoulder, when a man dressed in black slips out of an alleyway and into their path.

 

“Hey-” Grog starts, before another hand grabs onto him from behind and pulls him into the alley. Caught by surprise, he stumbles a little, and catches himself in time to see the first man in black push Pike down into the alley and pull out a gleaming knife, which he holds to her throat. In the same movement, his daemon, a snarling hyena, jumps on Seren and holds its claw to his face.

 

“Not a word, girl,” he says coolly. “I saw you in Daxio with the girl with the bear daemon, asking around about the armoured woman. What do they want with her, and what do they know?”

 

Grog doesn’t know about an armoured woman, really, but he only knows one person with a bear daemon. And these people, these people who pinned his best friend and put their knife to her throat, are not the kind of people he’s about to give information on Vex to.

 

“Grog,” Pike wheezes, going cross-eyed as she eyes the blade just resting above her throat, “ _run._ ”

 

“What? No.”

 

“Restrain the big one,” the guy with the knife snaps, neither he nor his daemon looking away from Pike. And really, Grog thinks, that’s his first mistake. Without any verbal prompting, Phillip breaks away from Grog’s side and charges the hyena from behind, grabbing its scruff with his teeth and throwing him off of Seren. The man with the knife gasps in pain and fumbles his knife, and in one swift moment Pike kicks upward, hard, and hits the man right between his legs. The hyena makes a sound between a growl and a whimper and staggers to one side, as the man crumples to the ground.

 

“Now,” Grog rumbles, turning to eye the other two men who are staring at this spectacle wide-eyed. “It’s been a while since I’ve practiced my hand-to-hand, but I’m thinkin’ this would be a good warmup.”

 

He charges straight for them, punching the one on the left once in the head, before thrusting back and stabbing the other in the face with his elbow, before either of them are able to do anything. Surprisingly, they recover quickly, both swinging a fist straight for him in retaliation. He lets them hit him, just for fun. It doesn’t really hurt – instead, he grins at them just as they are about to leave his reach, and grabs both their heads, slamming them together to knock them out cold.

 

“Don’t move,” snaps Pike in a trembling voice, and Grog turns from the now-unconscious two men on the ground to see her holding out the dropped knife, pointing it straight at the man who had been questioning it. “Don’t move, or I’ll _stab you_. What do you want with my friend?”

 

The man laughs, a coldly amused sound, and shows a grin that is all teeth. “Me? Nothing. But if she wants to keep her life, she may want to stop sniffing around Conclave business.”

 

Grog hasn’t heard of the Conclave before, but Pike frowns a bit at the word, and her grip on the knife tightens. She kicks him in the crotch one more time, and wrinkles her nose as he groans. “Grog,” she whispers, “how do you knock him out? I thought that would do it.”

 

He laughs, reaches across and slaps the man once across the face, hard enough to knock a tooth loose. With a second groan, the man’s eyes roll back into his head, and his daemon on the ground falls limp. “There,” he says with satisfaction. “You just gotta hit them hard enough, see?”

 

She bites her lip, sticks the knife into her belt, as Seren comes trotting up with the dropped package of herbs in his jaws. “We should go and find the twins,” he says, once Grog has taken the package from him. “At the very least, they should know that someone has been trailing them.”

 

“Haven’t they been trailing _us_?” asks Phillip, and Seren makes an expression that Grog, having become very familiar with the facial expressions of a badger, identifies as annoyance.

 

“Perhaps,” says Seren. “We shouldn’t stay near Grandfather for very long, in case we put him in any more danger than we already have, by association.”

 

“Maybe they’ll let us come along once they hear about this,” Grog says. “Two birds in the cloud and all that.”

 

“A _silver lining_ in the cloud,” Pike corrects, but she’s smiling again, so Grog counts it as a success.

 

~

 

As it turns out, Grog is right. After dinner (in which Pike stomps on Grog’s foot every time he tries to bring the altercation up, because she _really_ doesn’t want to worry Grandpa), when the twins have sequestered themselves into their room on her ship, she tells them what happened.

 

“The man from the bar in Daxio followed us here,” she says quietly. “He heard you asking about the lady in your photogram, and he tried to ask me and Grog about you. We said nothing,” she adds quickly, seeing Vex frown, “but I think you’ve got to be a little more discreet now. He said he was from the Conclave.”

 

“The _Conclave_ ,” Vax hums, thinking. “That sounds familiar, but I can’t seem to recall.”

 

“They’re a cult,” says Pike. “I don’t know that much of them, but I’ve heard that they have a couple of different sects, and they all believe that the best way to bring salvation is to somehow cleanse the world. A little terrorist, if you ask me.”

 

Vex looks more worried now. “Did he hurt you?”

 

“Only a scratch,” Pike rushes to assure her. Truthfully, it had been a little more than a scratch, but the bandage around her neck is hidden carefully by the high collar of her blouse, and she hopes that Vex doesn’t look too close.

 

“They know now that you are here,” Trinket rumbles. “You will need to take care of yourselves, as well.”

 

That is as good an opening as any, and Seren takes it. “About that,” he pipes up. “We were actually thinking- since they know we are here already, and we don’t want them to keep sniffing around, we might actually be safer with you. They won’t find us in Westruun and ambush us again, and if they find us, well, there’s some kind of safety in numbers.”

 

“And Grog punches real hard,” Pike adds, and Grog smiles at her, pleased.

 

Vex frowns, but Vax is nodding along, which Pike takes as a promising sign. “She has a point, sister,” he says. “And I for one would be glad to have the big man on our side in a fight, if Pike is right and he took out three men with his bare hands in less than two minutes.”

 

Vex mouths something that looks like _but the mission was supposed to be secret_ , before she sighs and shakes her head. “No, you’re right, brother. Pike,” she adds, turning to Pike, “you’ve already done so much for my brother and I. I must apologise that we have inadvertently placed you and Grog in further danger.”

 

“We agreed to an adventure,” replies Pike, smiling a small smile. “What would an adventure be without a little bit of danger?”

 

~

 

Percy doesn’t remember agreeing to transport _four_ humans in addition to a bear on his balloon, but Vex shoots him a hopeful look and he acquiesces, ignoring Vesper’s quiet snort of “You’re _hopeless_ ”. It’s not like he hasn’t transported these many beings before; it’ll be a bit of a squeeze, especially since the big Tartar-looking man Vex had introduced as “Grog” has a large sword strapped across his back. But they fit, and the balloon flies.

 

Flying is where Percy feels the most at home. As the balloon rises into the clouds and the chill begins to nip at him even through the thick fabric of his coat, he places his hands on the rim of the basket and pretends, just for a second, that he isn’t steering the balloon towards Whitestone. (And then one of his passengers asks him a question, and he is forcibly dragged back to the present.)

 

Pike, the short lady who is one of the two new additions, proves to be especially fantastic company, curiously watching him as he navigates. “I’m handy with a ship,” she tells him, “but I’ve never been in the air before.”

 

“It’s wonderful,” he replies. “Sometimes, I just look out at the clouds and pretend like I’m going off to some imaginary kingdom in the sky, where everything works they way it’s supposed to and everyone is kind.”

 

“I understand that. Sometimes, I would lie on the deck of my ship at night, and pretend I was a marooned adventurer at sea, navigating only by the light of the stars.”

 

Grog, the other new addition, seems a lot less sociable, but Percy watches the way he stays at Pike’s back like an overprotective shadow, and he feels a little kinship with the big man, remembering his own little sister with a brief pang. Vesper noses at his hand, murmurs: “They’re like a family, aren’t they? Two sets of siblings, travelling together.”

 

“And what are we?” he asks back, equally quietly. She snorts.

 

“The weird uncle,” she deadpans.

 

Percy’s lips twitch, and he tweaks Vesper’s ear. “That makes you the weird aunt, you know.”

 

She sniffs, snout in the air, and stalks off to curl up in an empty corner of the basket.

 

~

 

They land the balloon soon enough after a good two to three days of flying. Vax shivers as they hop out of the basket, because it’s north and it’s _cold_ , something he hadn’t been looking forward to after three days stuck in cold high-altitude air.

 

Nera tries to shift and slip under his collar, but he grabs her tail, sighing in relief when his hand grasps feathers instead of fur. “Not where they can see,” he hisses, and she snaps her beak at him in retaliation. “I’m _cold_ ,” she whines.

 

“Suck it up like me,” he returns, ignoring her response to take in their surroundings. Percy has landed them on the outskirts of a small village, right outside a ramshackle wooden house with a strange blackish blemish on the roof. An older man wearing worn clothing, wire glasses, and a Cheshire grin has stepped out of the house, a metal tool in hand and something absently tucked behind his ear. A slightly dazed-looking snowy owl flies out of the house after him, settling on his head.

 

“Percival!” the man crows in a raspy voice.

 

“Hello, Victor,” Percy replies. “I’ve come to park my balloon with you for a day or two, if that’s okay?”

 

“It’s fine! Come in, come in! Do you want some tea?”

 

He can feel Vex shift next to him, about to agree (and really, hot tea right about now does sound lovely), but the man looks a little too excited, and Vax catches Percy almost-imperceptibly shake his head, so he grabs Vex’s hand and squeezes it hard, instead. “No, thank you,” he says. “We’re just about to head into town.”

 

“Suit yourself,” Victor replies, grinning toothily, before waving at them and turning to head back into the house, humming something in an off-key tone.

 

Percy waits until the door closes, and then turns to them. “He boils his tea for _hours_ until it’s so thick that it could raise the dead,” he says dryly. “I would not recommend trying it.”

 

Just at that moment, there is a _bang_ from inside the house, followed by a tinny “I’m okay!”. Percy sighs, drags a hand down his face in an uncharacteristic move. “Victor is a little bit of a…scientist, if you will,” he says, beginning to lead them into town. “He experiments heavily with anything and everything he can get his hands on.”

 

“Is _that_ why there’s a huge black patch on his roof?” Pike pipes up. “I noticed it but I didn’t want to ask in case it was private.”

 

“A mishap with some of his gunpowder, apparently,” Percy shrugs. “It makes his house a little easier to see from the air, so I’ll take it.”

 

By this point, they have entered the village. Vax, almost immediately, spies a tavern with its door slightly ajar, bright music spilling out from within. “Here,” he says, tugging Vex in that direction, as the rest follow behind.

 

Inside the tavern is warm with ambaric lamplight, thought not many patrons fill the bar tables. On a small wooden stage in the middle of the room is a very tall man playing a fiddle, while a shorter man dressed in bright violet robes accompanies him on a flute, a meerkat-daemon perched on his shoulder and swaying to the beat. In front of them, a large boar-daemon taps out a beat onto the wooden floor of the stage. All the patrons of the tavern, and the barmaid, are engrossed in the performance, and Vax has to walk up to her and tap her arm twice before she jumps, startled, and takes his request for ale and some rooms.

 

Eventually, she hands him two mugs filled to the brim, and he heads back over to the rest of his companions, handing one mug over to Grog and the other to Vex. Just then, the song ends, and the crowd bursts into applause. “Thank you, thank you!” the flautist calls. “Once again, I am the Magnificent Shorthalt, and my partner was the devious Dr Dranzel. Please do tip us generously, my friends, and perhaps we’ll play a few more songs in a bit.” He bows, and hops off the stage.

 

“Funny name,” Vex snorts, taking a sip of her ale. “Anyway, you got us rooms?”

 

“For the night,” Vax confirms. “Percy will take us up north in the morning, I assume?”

 

“In the morning,” Percy sighs, looking worn. “For now, I am very much looking forward to the promise of a warm, soft bed.”

 

Just then, a hat pops into their vision, and Vex jumps back in surprise, almost spilling her ale. It’s the flautist, holding out a purple velvet cap, both he and the meerkat grinning. “Hello, friends,” he says. “The lady with the charming bear daemon, you look like you’re in the mood for a good tip, eh?”

 

“Not your friend,” Vex grumbles, but pulls a coin out from her purse and flicks it into the hat. The man sweeps into an exaggerated bow, nose nearly brushing the floor, and the meerkat has to sink her claws into his shirt to keep her balance. “Thank you for your patronage,” he says, mock-solemnly. “The House of Shorthalt will forever remember this day-”

 

“Hello,” Grog rumbles from behind the man (Shorthalt?), and he yelps with surprise and falls on his behind. “It was a very good performance, but we’re very tired, sorry.”

 

Pike leans past him and drops another coin into the hat, smiling at the flautist. “It _was_ very good,” she says.

 

The man looks rather startled at the appearance of even more people, but collects himself. “Glad you enjoyed it,” he says, backing out of their circle. “Good night!”

 

~

 

Pike doesn’t tell anyone, but Percy is nervous. He’s pretty good at hiding it, which means that Grog has missed the tells entirely. The twins, who might have picked up on this normally, are currently distracted as Nera has snagged one of the feathers braided into Vex’s hair, and she and her human are running ahead on the path to Whitestone, laughing, looking for a moment like young teens without a care instead of the serious adults they usually present themselves as.

 

But Pike walks with Percy, watching, and she notices the tightness of his lips with every hour they get closer to the town, the way Vesper stays close to him and presses herself against his legs, the way his hand occasionally twitches to the pistol she’s seem holstered at his hip, below his coat.

 

So when Percy brings them to a copse of trees in the evening to camp, the shadow of the walls surrounding Whitestone in the distance, and announces that he’s going to stay at the camp the next day, Pike volunteers to stay with him. “I’ll keep you company,” she says, and Seren snuffles his agreement, leaning his face on her knee.

 

Grog, who had been talking to Vex about what Whitestone might look like when they go in the morning, looks up at this. “You’re stayin’ behind?” he asks, looking conflicted, and Pike sighs.

 

“Yeah, Grog,” she says. “I don’t want to leave Percy out here all alone, you know?”

 

“Then I’m stayin’ too,” he replies immediately.

 

Pike frowns. She knows Grog has been very excited about the whole idea of an adventure, and she’d heard his excitement even in discussing the possibility of what he _might_ see in this new city. “No, Grog,” she says slowly. “Vex and Vax are going into this new town tomorrow, and it might be dangerous. Remember how even back in Westruun, we got attacked? If it happens again, they might need someone like you to help beat up the bad guys, y’know?”

 

“But Pike,” he protests, “what if the bad guys come to _you_? I can’t beat them up for you if I’m not there.”

 

Vesper makes a sound that’s a cross between a snort and a canine snuffle of sorts, from where she’s stretched out as Percy tends to the small campfire he’s building up. “Percival is a very good shot,” she says, in as best a comforting tone as her raspy, low voice allows. “We can keep Pike safe for a day.”

 

“Besides,” adds Seren, nudging Pike’s knee. “We still have that knife we stole off the Conclave guy in Westruun. Push comes to shove, we stab them real hard and run away.”

 

“We’ll be okay for one day, Grog,” says Pike, placatingly. “Go with Vex and Vax, see new things! And you can tell me all about Whitestone when you come back.”

 

He studies her long and hard for a while. “Okay,” he says at last, a little reluctantly, and Pike pretends she doesn’t see the brief flash of excitement in his eyes at the thought of more adventure. “If any bad guys come for you, scream real loud and kick ‘em in the nuts, okay?”

 

“Of course,” she grins, and bumps her fist to his.

 

Vex is looking between the two of them, looking partly amused and partly concerned. “Only if you’re sure, darling,” she says, “but if you are, we would be happy to have Grog along for a little extra muscle and presence.”

 

Pike looks at Grog, whose face is pinched at the thought of leaving her behind for the first time since she and Willhand first found him on the riverbank, sodden and alone. She looks (out of the corner of her eye) at Percy, quietly hunched over the fire and not saying a word. “I’m sure,” she says, with a small smile. “I’ll stay with Percy.”

 

~

 

The next morning dawns bright and early, and Vex, Vax, and Grog slip out of the campsite and head towards Whitestone. In the early morning sun, it’s an easy enough walk, and they get into the city with no issue.

 

Inside the city, however, they are faced with an entirely different problem. “Percy was right,” Vax says dryly, looking around at the number of houses with no light shining from them, roofs tattered and walls peeling. “This _is_ a ghost town. How are we going to get any information from around here?”

 

On his shoulder, Nera ruffles her feathers, and then takes to the air. Vax watches her go, higher up than would probably be socially appropriate to show off – but nobody’s watching, so Vax says nothing as his daemon flies further than a normal person’s daemon would from their human.

 

In a minute or two, she returns, winging her way back to her usual perch on his shoulder. “There is some kind of inn close to the centre of town,” she says. “The lights are on, and there’s activity going on inside. I saw the musicians from the night before enter as well, so there should be an innkeep we can ask, at least.”

 

“Fantastic,” says Vex dryly. “Some life in this town. Let’s go.”

 

As they approach the centre of town, Vax realises than “inn” might have been a slightly generous description – what meets their eyes is a slightly ramshackle-looking wooden building, tar-paper nailed over the roof and dim ambaric light shining through the grimy windows. He ducks in after Vex, Grog behind him (who _actually_ has to duck through the doorway), and blinks rapidly as his eyes adjust to the lightning.

 

Behind him, he hears the faint creak of wood as Trinket has shouldered his way into the inn after Grog, slightly cracking the doorframe.

 

Inside the inn is nearly empty, save for a haggard-looking innkeep cleaning the bar. Both the bar and the man look as though they’ve seen better days, and Vax can’t blame them – at this time of the day there are only two patrons he can see sitting around. One of them he vaguely recognises as possibly being one of the musicians from the tavern; the other is a man in a black travelling cloak who is hunched over a nearly-empty glass at the table.

 

Both the innkeep and the man at the bar start as they approach, though Vax notes that their gazes go first to Grog, bringing up the rear, before coming back to look at Vex and himself with trepidation in their eyes.

 

“Rare to see one of ‘em Tartars around here,” grunts the innkeep after a moment of awkward silence. “The north’s not very fond of them, you know.”

 

“We’re just passing through,” replies Vex smoothly, before Grog can respond. “A friend of ours might have stopped by – short, golden hair, armour? We’ve been looking for her.”

 

The innkeep frowns, and squints in thought. His daemon, a black cat with milky-green eyes, crawls up onto the bar counter and begins to knead at the washcloth on the countertop. “Can’t say we’ve seen a woman in armour round these parts recently,” says the innkeep, eventually, his eyes darting around nervously between Vex, Vax, and (strangely) the man at the counter.

 

Vex seems to pick up on the innkeep’s gaze as well, because she turns next to the cloaked man. “How about you, sir? Might you have seen a short, armoured woman around these parts?”

 

The man looks up at her. Now that Vax has a better look, he notices a faint scar running down one side of the man’s face, and his complexion is almost a sickly white. His gaze slides to Grog for a moment, then back to Vex, a little quiver to his lip. Vax sighs. “Grog,” he says, “do you mind if you wait for us outside the inn? We won’t take long. I think the sword on your back is scaring them a little.”

 

Grog frowns. “I promised Pike I’d stay with you.”

 

“Not here,” says the man in a quiet, whispery voice. “The walls have ears. I know of the friend you seek, but she was being followed. Follow me to my room, and I can tell you in private what I know. But the Tartar leaves.”

 

The man drains the last of his drink and stands, beckoning as he moves towards a door Vax hadn’t previously noticed at the side of the bar. At his feet, a hyena-daemon stretches languidly before getting up, padding to his side.

 

“This seems dodgy,” Vax whispers to his sister, as quietly as he can.

 

“I know, but it’s our only lead,” she whispers back. “Grog,” she continues, “be a dear and wait for us outside? We’ll be out real soon, I promise.”

 

He studies them for a moment. “Holler real loud if the guy’s a dick,” he says at last, before turning and heading out of the inn. Just before they exit, Phillip looks back at them in concern, before he follows his human out. The man watches Grog leave, and sighs.

 

“Sorry about that,” he says, looking a little less nervous once Grog is gone. “I have a bad history with Tartars, and would rather not have to spend long in the presence of one. Here, come this way.”

 

He leads them through the door and they find themselves in a large bedroom with a worn carpet in the middle of the floor, half-threadbare. A fire crackles quietly in one corner.

 

“Sit, sit,” says the man, gesturing to a couple of the chairs as Trinket squeezes himself through the door and the man shuts it behind them. “Now. Why are you looking for this lady friend of yours?”

 

Vex frowns. “None of your business,” she says. “You said you knew where she was. Where was she headed?”

 

The man laughs, sinking down into his own chair. He seems a little more sure of himself now, Vax notes, and his smile appears to almost be condescending. “Such an interesting woman, she was,” he says in lieu of an answer. “Looked to be some sort of important mission.”

 

He pauses, then: “You two seem pretty interesting, too.”

 

“What does this have to do-” Vax starts, but before he can finish he feels something hit the back of his neck with great force, and then all he knows is darkness.

 

~

 

Those twins are strange, Scanlan thinks to himself. He’d first noticed them the night before, when the woman had reluctantly given him coin for their performance. It would have been hard to miss their group – a pair of near-identical twins, a massive man with Tartar markings, a man in fine clothes with a shock of white hair, and a young woman dressed in the casual clothes of the Gyptian people. A _highly_ motley crew, to be sure.

 

He’d been reluctant to stop over in Whitestone on their journey west, truth be told, but Dranzel had insisted, saying that it was on the way. And, well, it _was_ , but the town was so devoid of life that Scanlan thinks he might have much preferred just camping out in the wilderness instead. It would, he muses to Aes, have been less boring than this town.

 

Which is what had made it even more of a surprise to see the same twins, walking into the inn of this godforsaken town not even a day later, supposedly on some sort of mission. Dranzel’s gone to see if there are any inns around that are a little less shitty, so for now he’s just stuck in a corner with half a mug of lukewarm beer.

 

It’s not like Scanlan is _trying_ to eavesdrop on the conversation, but the inn is deathly quiet and the woman isn’t trying to whisper or anything, so he picks up snippets. So he notices when the man they’re talking to says that he won’t talk until the Tartar is out of the room; he notices when the woman tells her friend that they will be out in a short while.

 

He notices when the man re-enters the main room, _alone_ , though he quickly ducks his head down and pretends to be contemplating his beer so the man doesn’t notice him. He watches out of the corner of his eye as the man walks in, gait a little hurried, and slides the innkeep a handful of gold coins before walking back into his room.

 

It’s suspicious. Aes pokes her head out from where she was curled inconspicuously around his neck. “I heard a muffled thump from behind that door,” she whispers to him, “right before that man came out again. Something’s happened.”

 

“And what do we do about that?” Scanlan hisses back. “Do you want to get involved in _that_?”

 

“Well, no,” she snaps, “but I have a feeling the Tartar man would cause a scene if he isn’t told. We can at least tell him that something’s wrong, and then let him settle the rest himself.”

 

He sighs. Aes is right, of course, and it’s the better route to take, all things considered. But there’s a reason why Aes is the Good Samaritan and he… isn’t. As though sensing this train of thought, she whips her head around and bites his ear, her sharp meerkat teeth making him wince.

 

“Fine, fine,” he sighs, getting to his feet. He walks out of the inn, leaving behind enough coin to cover his drink, and almost trips over the Tartar man’s daemon lying just to the side of the doorway.

 

“Hey, uh, big guy,” Scanlan says, and the man turns to look at him. “The guy your friends were talking to just came out, but he was alone. And your friends haven’t come back out.”

 

The man stares at him for a second, seemingly not comprehending, but his white dog-daemon lets out a profanity Scanlan swears he’s only heard sailors use before. “I _knew_ he was fishy,” the daemon snarls, and charges back into the inn, his human at his heels. Just to see where this goes, Scanlan ambles back inside.

 

The door is closed, but the man kicks it down with one powerful leg motion, ignoring the startled cry of the elderly innkeep. Following behind, Scanlan peers around the massive girth of the Tartar man, and sees… nothing.

 

Oh, it’s a fully-furnished bedroom for sure, with chairs and a table and a threadbare rug and a fire burning merrily in a corner. But there’s no sign of any person in the room.

 

“Pike is gonna _kill_ me,” groans the big man, sliding a hand over his face. “Where could they have gone?”

 

It’s a valid point – there is only one door out of the room, which is the one they have just come through, and there are no windows. Scanlan highly doubts that they would have escaped through the chimney, but there wouldn’t have been any other way-

 

“Wait,” Aes says. “Doesn’t that look suspicious?”

 

She points a paw at the rug in the centre of the room. Scanlan frowns and studies it for a moment, before he sees what she does: a small indentation in the centre of the rug, in the shape of a circle. Striding forward, he yanks at the rug, and it shifts to reveal a door in the ground, with a slim iron ring attached to it.

 

“A trapdoor,” he says, bemused. He tries to tug on the handle, but it doesn’t budge.

 

The man scowls even more. “They could be anywhere by now,” he says.

 

“Hm,” says his daemon. “We could break down the trapdoor, but it might be safer with backup. I don’t think that man was alone. Too many scents in the room.”

 

“Percy had a gun,” says the man thoughtfully, then, to Scanlan: “Come, let’s go. No time to waste.”

 

“What-” Scanlan says, but a big meaty hand clamps around his wrist before he can say anything, and the man takes off on a half-run-half-jog out of the town.

 

Aes chitters into his ear, amused. “Well,” she says, digging her claws into his shirt to keep from falling off. “At least _this_ won’t be boring.”

 

~

 

It’s been half a day or so since the twins and Grog set out into Whitestone proper. Pike watches Percy clean his guns and reload them with small leaden bullets, as she takes the knife that she’d stolen from her assailant and gives it some experimental swings.

 

Suddenly, she hears the crunch of footsteps in snow, and turns to see Phillip running towards them at full speed, Grog just behind him, dragging with him a small man in violet robes who looks to be significantly more winded than Grog.

 

“They’re gone,” Phillip wheezes, being the first one to get to the campsite. “The twins.”

 

Pike drops the knife in shock. “What do you mean, they’re gone?”

 

“Some man who they were askin’ for information from tricked us into waitin’ outside,” says Grog, picking up the story. “When we went back inside, they were gone, and all we could find was a damn trapdoor.”

 

“I thought he was suspicious,” snarls Phillip, “but I thought the twins would be able to handle him.”

 

Pike watches as Percy slowly puts his gun back into the holster at his hip. “They managed to find someone with the information they were looking for?” he asks. “That sounds awfully convenient.”

 

Behind Grog, the musician has extricated his wrist from Grog’s grasp. Before he can back away, Pike calls out to him: “Did you see any of this happen?”

 

“I saw those twins go into the side room,” says the musician, his meerkat-daemon burying her nose into the side of his neck. “And they never came out.”

 

Percy swears, an ugly sound, and begins to stamp out the embers of their fire from the night before. “There aren’t many underground tunnels through Whitestone,” he says, confidently. “And the ones that do exist lead to…”

 

He trails off, and Pike turns to see a look of horrified realization dawn on Percy’s face for a brief moment before it is ruthlessly hidden behind his usual expressionless façade. “Grog,” says Percy slowly. “What did the man look like?”

 

“Had a cloak on, didn’t see much,” says Grog, regretfully. “Some sort of scar on his face.”

 

“Hyena daemon,” pipes up the musician. “I noticed that, it was rather unusual.”

 

Percy pales. “Hyena daemons are rare,” he says, quietly. “I… I think I might know where they took the twins. There’s a facility, outside town across from where we are.”

 

He begins to take off at a half-run, half-jog, towards the town, Vesper loping easily beside him. Grog looks at her, and she looks at the musician. “Thanks for your help,” she says, smiling at him, and he nods.

 

“No problem,” he says. “You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t join you, though. Seems like there’s going to be a fight, and I’m not particularly good at those.”

 

“That’s alright, you’ve done enough already,” she replies. “We’re headed to Vasselheim University from here. If we get out of this intact, and we meet you there, I’ll buy you a drink as my thanks.”

 

He smiles, a quicksilver flicker, as Grog shifts impatiently in place. “I’ll look you up,” the musician promises, winking at her. “Scanlan Shorthalt, at your service. But now, I think you’ve got something else you should be doing.”

 

“Pike,” she says in return, a fleeting returning smile of her own appearing. Scanlan makes an exaggerated bow over his extended hand, and she laughs, before then turns and takes off after the distant figure of Percy.

 

~

 

Vex comes to with a sour taste in her mouth, and her hands tied together. The room she’s in is dark, and she’s seated on a ratty straw pallet on the floor, only barely visible by the light that comes in through the bars of the metal grate-door at the front of this room. Absently, she notes that her pack is gone, and that Trinket is just now groggily getting to his feet, some sort of metallic muzzle around his jaw. It makes her feel a little sick to look at it, and to know that someone must have put their hands on her daemon, on her _soul_ , in order to get that muzzle on.

 

“Oh, good,” says a rough, low voice to the side. “You’re up. Who’re you?”

 

Vex groans, and turns to look at the speaker… and pauses. Looking directly at her is a woman with straggly light golden hair, scars on her face and neck. She looks gaunt and tired, and a little more pale than the photogram in Vex’s pack, but familiar nonetheless. At her feet lies a bundle of dark fur, unmoving. Some sort of daemon, perhaps, but Vex can’t see any distinguishing features that would have otherwise identified it.

 

“…Are you Kima?” Vex asks, and the woman’s eyes narrow.

 

“How do you know that name?” she asks suspiciously.

 

“Allura sent us to find you, me and my brother,” she replies, wiggling herself into an upright, seated position. “I guess we found you, in the end.”

 

“Fat lot of good that does,” Kima says dryly. “They knew what I was carrying with me, somehow, and ambushed me while I was staying the night in Whitestone.”

 

“‘They’?”

 

Kima shrugs. “The heads of this research facility. Two women and a man, and some goons. They’re very interested in researching daemons and dust, or something like that. Supposedly they’re part of the Conclave.”

 

Vex gasps, suddenly. “My _brother_ ,” she says. “Did you see them bring in a man who looks like me?”

 

Before Kima can respond, there is the sound of clicking footsteps coming closer, as though made by a person wearing heeled boots walking with purpose. A woman soon appears in the corridor beyond the barred doors, and peers inside. She’s dressed in a white coat worn over a long black dress, dark red hair tied up in a tidy bun. At her feet is a hyena daemon, coat glossy and steps silent.

 

“And so our newest arrival awakes,” she says, her voice smooth and rich.

 

“Who are you?” asks Vex. “Where is my brother?”

 

A smile curves the woman’s lips at that. “Why, he is still asleep, I believe. Most curious, he is. As we brought him in, all the equipment in the laboratory went a little haywire. I wonder, since he still seems to be out cold, if you might know what’s so special about your brother?”

 

“I don’t give a shit about your research, nor do I know anything about it,” Vex says, annoyed. The woman shrugs a shoulder artfully, looking entirely unbothered by the venom in Vex’s voice.

 

“Very well,” she says, and then her gaze slides to Kima. “And our star, Miss Kima. Have you changed your mind about helping us yet?”

 

“I told you,” Kima says through gritted teeth, “I don’t know how to read it, nor would I be inclined to tell you the identity of the people who can.”

 

“Suit yourself,” says the woman. “Neither would I be inclined to send down dinner again tonight, I suppose.”

 

She sweeps back out the way she came, and there is the sound of a slamming door. Kima lets out a breath. “That was one of the Briarwoods,” she says, “she runs the research here. Do- do you know what I was transporting?”

 

“An alethiometer,” Vex says slowly, “Allura told me.”

 

“Yes, that. Well, the bitch-woman’s been asking me to help her read it, but I’ve got no idea what any of those symbols mean. Far as I’ve been able to gather, she wants to open some sort of… gate? And she thinks the alethiometer will tell her the answer.”

 

“Would it?”

 

“Beats me,” Kima says. “I hope she never learns its secret. The power of ultimate truth in the hands of someone like that… it’s a terrifying thought.”

 

~

 

Percy, as it turns out, is not made for long-distance running the way Grog is. Pike finds this out relatively quickly – not ten minutes after she tries to catch up to Percy (with his headstart) and Grog (who is used to travelling far on foot) on her short legs, she notices Percy come to a stop and bend over, apparently gasping for air, Vesper flopping down at his feet.

 

“Why’re you in such a rush, anyways?” she hears Grog ask as she jogs up to the both of them.

 

“Hyena daemon,” wheezes Percy, the urgency creasing his brow into a frown.

 

“We have only met two people before who have a hyena daemon,” Vesper adds, her physique seemingly more suited to intense physical exertion than her human, and therefore less winded. “We last encountered both of them in Whitestone. They… they are bad news, indeed.”

 

Pike frowns. “Why? Who are these people?”

 

Percy and Vesper exchange a _look_ , one that speaks a thousand words. Finally, Percy sighs and straightens up, beginning to walk forward. He tilts his head back, as though to say: _you coming?_

 

As Pike and Seren trot up, Percy speaks again: “If it is who I think they are, they are a couple of researchers from the Conclave. Doctor Delilah Briarwood and her husband Sylas. They used to run a laboratory on the far edge of Whitestone, though I did not know if they were still here.”

 

“Is that why you seemed so reluctant to come to Whitestone?” Pike asks, and sees Percy start, as though he hadn’t expected someone to notice.

 

“…Yes,” he says, quieter this time. There is silence for a while, save for the sound of their brisk walking, before he speaks again, slowly, each word sounding like it was dragged up out of his throat and into the air.

 

“The Briarwoods… they experimented on children. Or rather, children and their daemons, I expect. They mostly took children from the streets that wouldn’t be missed, but one night when I was out with my sister, we saw a man with a hyena daemon trying to abduct a street child. I… I foolishly assumed myself a hero, I admit, and tried to charge at him to get him to let the child go. He hit me in the back of the head to knock me out, and when I next awoke I was in a cell in what I later discovered was their laboratory.”

 

“Experiments on _children_?” Pike whispers, horrified, and feels her blood run cold.

 

“That’s sick,” Grog agrees. Pike feels a stab of pity for him – despite his size, Grog has a hidden soft spot for small or young creatures, and she knows the idea of experimenting on young children must sound perhaps even more abhorrent to him than it already does to her.

 

“It’s not exactly what you’re thinking,” Percy says, a tad dryly. “It was mostly a lot of measurements and staring at instruments. They would take us out one by one, and make our daemons change while measuring us. Ripley – another researcher who worked with them – sometimes said that she was trying to measure our ‘dust’, whatever _that_ meant.”

 

“Why are you so worried, then? Vax and Vex aren’t children, they wouldn’t exactly be within the research scope of these… Briarwoods.”

 

“They had a machine,” Percy explains. “It looked a little like one of those guillotines, that they used for executions in the past, except it was made entirely of some silvery metal. I,” he swallows, starts again, “I overheard them speaking about it one night early into my capture, when I was trying to sneak away. Supposedly, they were still trying to figure out how to make it work, but they knew its intended purpose – it could sever the bond between a daemon and a person.”

 

All of them shudder as Percy says this. To know that a machine was built that could sever a daemon, cut away part of her _soul_ , sickens Pike. “That… that _can’t_ be possible,” she whispers. “It can’t. I would rather die than have Seren cut from me.”

Percy is silent for a good while more. Finally, Vesper, perhaps sensing that her human would say now more, speaks up in her raspy voice: “Well, we don’t know for sure whether it worked that way. But we know this: From time to time, they would take a child away for tests, and he would never come back. Sometimes,” her voice cracks, “sometimes we could hear their screaming from away down the hall, before it would stop, abruptly. It was awful.”

 

Grog makes a mournful sound low in his throat, and Pike instinctively reaches out to put her hand in his and squeeze it.

 

“Besides,” Vesper continues, as though she hadn’t just made a horrifying revelation about what Vax and Vex may be subject to even at this moment. “Even if they haven’t made that guillotine to work, Sylas Briarwood… He is not a man who observes the unspoken rules between human and daemon. If the children do not cooperate, he grabs their daemons and hurts them until the children capitulate. _That_ is perhaps what we are the most anxious about.”

 

Pike, already cold from the snow and from the sickening idea of a machine that cuts daemons away, feels as though the blood in her veins has turned into ice. Everybody knows, almost like an unspoken rule, that one cannot touch another’s daemon, and neither can one’s daemon touch another human, as to lay your hands on the soul of another would be the greatest violation of privacy. To think that a man, maybe the very man that met with Vax and Vex in the town, thinks nothing of committing such taboos…

 

She swallows the bile that rises in her throat. “For their sakes, I hope they’re alright,” she whispers, fingers itching to curl themselves into Seren’s fur for comfort. “Let’s hurry.”

 

~

 

Vax comes to in a bright room, a ringing in the back of his head. He groans as the bright light sears his eyes for a moment, and then blinks the spots away. He’s tied to a chair of some sort, and Nera is chained to another chair a little ways away, looking groggy but highly disgruntled.

 

“We got played,” she says, grumpily. “Where are we?”

 

It’s a valid question, and one Vax has no answer to. Looking around the room provides no clues – it’s full of platforms and tables with strange-looking instruments on them, like something out of the photographs of experimental theology laboratories he’d once seen in a book out of the Syngorn College library.

 

There is a _click_ sound, and Vax jerks his head around to see two women and a man walk in through the now-open door, all dressed in pristine white coats. One of the women has a pair of reading-glasses perched on her nose and a monkey-daemon perched on her shoulder, while the other two have muscular hyenas pacing behind in their footsteps.

 

“You,” says Vax, looking at the man as recognition hits. “You’re the man from the inn.”

 

The man smirks. “Here I thought I was simply getting rid of someone else sniffing on the trail of our esteemed prisoner,” he says, voice smooth as honey. “But my dear wife tells me that we’ve picked up another prize.”

 

“Indeed,” says the woman with the hyena daemon, scientific interest gleaming in her eyes as she walks to one of the machines in the room. “You and your daemon have such a high level of Dust around you both, it nearly broke our machines. Curious, indeed – most children have relatively high Dust levels, we’ve found, but those go down by rather much once the daemons settle. So you see, you are a curious case, indeed.”

 

She says _Dust_ with a gravity that suggests that it ought to be writ in capital letters, but Vax has never heard of such a thing before.

 

“… Is this some kind of experimental theology concept?” asks Vax, lost. “Only, I know I haven’t had a bath in a while, but I’m pretty sure I’m not _that_ dusty.”

 

The other woman, the one with the monkey on her shoulder, barks a short laugh. “‘ _For dust thou art, and to dust thou shalt return_ ,’ as they say,” she says, her voice of a low tone and rough, less refined than the man’s. “We hypothesise that Dust is the energy of this universe, and could possibly be harnessed to achieve great, impossible things. Quite intriguing, indeed, that you possess such a large amount of it.”

 

Nera growls, and Vax suppresses a smile – of the two of them, she was always the less patient in their lessons, and the tone of the woman, akin to one reciting from a scientific textbook, must have flown over her head. “What do you want with us?” she asks. “We know nothing of this _Dust_ of which you speak.”

 

“Oh, nothing much,” says the woman with the hyena daemon. “We’d just like to conduct a couple of experiments. You won’t feel any hurt, even – they’ll be quick and painless.” She turns to the man: “Sylas, if you would?”

 

The man nods and strides forward, grabbing the chair to which Nera is chained. She squawks in alarm, flapping her wings as though to get away from him, and the man (Sylas?) huffs an impatient breath through his nose, before he reaches out and grasps Nera in one hand, pinning her wings roughly to her body.

 

Vax feels a sick feeling run up his spine, leaving him cold and gasping, at the sight of _his_ Nera clutched in the hands of another. “Let go of her!” he cries, trying not to gag in revulsion. “Don’t _touch_ her.”

 

The man laughs and opens his hand, letting Nera fall back down onto the chair, shaking and gasping little bird-sobs. “Play nicely with us, and I won’t have to do that again,” he says contemptuously.

 

~

 

The laboratory is more of a house, really, a dark thing made out of stone and brick that sits, isolated, on the far end of town.

 

“Should we go in through the front?” Grog asks. “The door’s wood, I could break through that.”

 

“From the back, perhaps,” says Percy, still quiet after the revelations of earlier. “If they have not redecorated since I was last here, there should be a backdoor. And we should go in quietly.”

 

There is, indeed, a back door, though it is locked. Grog watches Pike and Percy fiddle with it for a while, Pike pulling a pin from her hair and sticking it into the lock to jiggle around a little. A good five minutes pass, Grog growing more and more impatient with every second.

 

“Thought we were in a hurry,” he grumbles loudly, and kicks at the door once, hard. It shakes, and he kicks it again. This time, he hears the _snap_ of weathered metal breaking, and the door creaks open.

 

“…Well,” says Pike, dryly. “That works, too.”

 

Phillip is the first inside the darkened hall that opens up from the door, and he takes a sniff of the musty air. “I smell a bit of bear down to the left,” he says in an undertone.

 

“That’d be where they keep the ones they aren’t experimenting on at the moment,” says Vesper, her nose also up in the air to catch the scent. “This way.”

 

She pushes past and begins to lead the way, Grog following behind her and Percy with Pike bringing up the rear. The hallway branches out left and right, and they take the left path. Soon, the smooth tiled walls begin to give way to rows of metal bars, worn and slightly rusted with age, and empty rooms beyond them. Grog remembers Percy telling them about the children that used to be kept here, and tries to keep his anger at bay as he takes in the two rows of empty prison cells (for they could be nothing else) that stretch out ahead of them.

 

About halfway down the long corridor, they hear a gasp. Grog spins around, one hand flying to the hilt of his sword instinctually. Staring at them out of one of the cells is a familiar woman, huddled next to a large bear daemon with matted fur.

 

“Vex!” Pike whispers, running up to press her face against the bars. “Oh, thank _goodness_ you’re safe.”

 

There is a groan from the other side of the cell, and a woman with dirty-blonde hair and a scarred face inches forward. “Lovely,” she says, “a rescue party. I don’t suppose any of you have the keys?”

 

“No,” Grog says, “but I could break down the door. I did it, outside.”

 

Percy snorts. “You’re strong,” he says, “but I don’t think you could break through that metal. Where are the keys kept?”

 

“The bitch-woman has them,” says the blonde, scowling. An _attitude_ and fighter’s scars – Grog likes her already.

 

“Or,” says Vex, “Pike, do you have a hairpin of some sort? We could try to pick the lock.”

 

“We tried,” Pike replies sourly. “I’m afraid I’m not very good at it.”

 

Vex laughs a little. “Stick it in,” she says. “I’ll teach you.”

 

What transpires next is a very tense six minutes, while Grog watches Pike nervously twist her hairpin around the lock to Vex’s instructions, and Phillip keeps a wary eye out down the corridor. Percy has gone further down the corridor, looking into each cell.

 

Finally, there is a soft _click_ , and the door to the cell swings open. Vex is the first to stumble out, and now Grog notices that her hands have been bound together with rope, the wrists red from where the hemp has chafed against the skin. “Here,” he says, grabbing the dagger from Pike’s belt and awkwardly cutting through the ropes.

 

Vex shakes out her wrists as the ropes fall away. “Thanks, Grog,” she says, relieved. “I promise I am _never_ leaving your sight again. We were too desperate for information, and we fell into their damn trap.”

 

Trinket lumbers out of the cell after his human, looking highly disgruntled with a metallic muzzle clamped around his jaw. Vex swipes the ruined hairpin from Pike’s hand and sets about fiddling with the lock on the muzzle, while Grog walks into the cell to free the hands of the blonde woman.

 

“Thanks,” says the woman. “Name’s Kima, and this is Xymor.” She nods to her feet, where Grog notices a slow-moving bundle of fur that shifts and reveals itself to be an exhausted-looking black panther. “I don’t suppose you have a spare sword you could lend me until we get my belongings back?”

 

“Nope, sorry.”

 

The woman sighs. “Very well. I’ll perhaps go looking for my weapons on the way out.”

 

Behind them, Vex makes a satisfied sound as the muzzle clicks open and clatters to the ground. “Finally,” Trinket grumbles. “If that cursed man dares to lay his hands on me again, I will _rend_ his mangy hyena into so many pieces that the both of them will collapse into dust.”

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Grog sees Pike freeze. “The man with the hyena daemon touched you?” she whispers, sounding horrified.

 

“Apparently,” Vex grumbles, looking as though this is new information to her as well. She curls her hand into Trinket’s fur, and leans into him for a moment. “Not that this isn’t touching or whatever, but my brother’s apparently been taken to the laboratory by the bitch-woman with the hyena daemon. Might any of you know where that is?”

 

Percy pales, and utters a word Grog’s only heard once before on a pirate ship out on the seas. “This way,” he says, and takes off running down the hallway in the direction they had come.

 

Grog unsheathes his sword and follows, Phillip loping along at his heels and his face a grim mask. He might not have been as fond of Vax before, but there’s no way he’s letting him suffer any of the atrocities Percy had described earlier.

 

“Percy!” Vex calls out from behind them. “Do they have a study, or something? We’re useless if we go in unarmed, and I suspect they may have kept my belongings.”

 

“Second right!” Percy calls over his shoulder, as he and Grog disappear down a new turn to the left.

 

~

 

“Curious, indeed,” says the lady with the hyena daemon, peering down at the readings on her screen, as Vax fidgets impatiently in the chair he’s tied to. His captors have made the mistake of not binding his legs, but his hands are bound tight enough to nearly cut off the bloodflow to his fingers, and Sylas is leaning next to the door, watching him with eyes narrowed.

 

The other woman with the monkey daemon is working at another machine, a pleased smile across her features. “Curiously, the Dust is in flux as it might be in a child,” she says. “Not at all calm like in an adult with a settled daemon.”

 

“But a more complex mixture of Dust, for sure,” says the first woman. “Look at these photograms, Anna. The miasma is richer and falls in more detailed patterns than it does in the photograms we took of the children.”

 

It’s scientific talk, and it flies over Vax’s head, so he instead looks across the room to Nera. She catches his eye, and he casts a meaningful glance over his shoulder to where his hands are bound, hoping she catches his meaning. He wouldn’t normally do this, but he knows that interested Scholars who conduct experiments usually does not bode well for the subject of their experimentation.

 

Before Nera can move, the door slams open as though kicked in with a great force, catching Sylas in the face and causing him to stumble away, clutching his cheek. There in the doorway is a satisfied-looking Grog with a massive sword in hand.

 

“ _Sylas!_ ” comes a roar, and Vax watches in astonishment as Percy ducks under Grog’s arm and charges into the room, a pistol gripped in his hand. With casual ease, he brings it up and fires a shot with a resounding _crack_ ; still taken by surprise and in pain, Sylas can’t do so much as move before the bullet buries itself in his right thigh. He roars in pain, and drops to one knee.

 

Nera takes the distraction for what it is. While everyone stares at Grog and Percy, he feels the twinge in his heart as she _shifts_ into a mouse, scurrying to his side and beginning to nibble through the ropes.

 

“Why, that’s a face I never thought to see again,” drawls the woman with the hyena daemon. “That white hair is simply _unmistakable_. Percival, what a pleasure.”

 

“Hello, Delilah,” says Percy grimly, and Vax feels a thrill of shock go through him as he realises that Percy _knows_ these people. “Up to your old tricks again, I see.”

 

The woman, Delilah, spreads her hands with a laugh. “The last raid took away all our experiments,” she says. “We were chasing rumours of a truth-teller, looking for another way to achieve our goal, when this gift simply fell right into our lap. How could I not seize such a golden opportunity?”

 

“Still trying for intercision?” Percy snarls. “You’re sick.”

 

Anna laughs now, stepping forward and away from her machine. “Oh, Percival,” she says condescendingly. “Intercision, yes, but never as the goal. No, it was merely the _means_.”

 

 _Intercision_ is a strange word to Vax. He knows it means _to cut_ , but he’s not entirely clear on what is being cut, nor why Percy spits the word out with such venom. He, however, recalls Anna and Delilah’s strange fascination with him and their talk of unsettled daemons, and feels sickened as he considered what these people might possibly be trying to cut away.

 

Nera, done now with his ropes, scrambles up onto his shoulder and turns back into a raven. Vax keeps his hands behind his back, and hopes everyone is too distracted to notice.

 

He has no such luck. Delilah shifts, a smirk growing across her face as she turns to look at him. “Oho,” she says. “There was no raven on your shoulder there before, young man – only a small white mouse. An unsettled daemon at this age?”

 

“The _Dust_ ,” Anna breathes, shifting her gaze to stare straight at Nera. “Delilah, with the patterns that complex, think of the potential of the release-”

 

“ _Get away from my brother, you sick fucks._ ”

 

A yell rings out from the doorway and Vax turns his attention back to the door, to see his sister, Pike, and a blonde scarred woman he vaguely recognises from Allura’s photogram. Pike is clutching a dagger, the woman a hefty two-handed sword, and his sister her crossbow.

 

Vex turns and catches sight of Sylas crouched on the ground, bleeding sluggishly from his thigh wound. “You,” she hisses, and past her a dark blur runs up and slams into Sylas’ daemon. It’s Trinket, enraged and snarling at the hyena pinned underneath his girth.

 

“Girl, let him-” gasps Delilah, but Trinket looses another furious growl, and slits the hyena’s throat with one hooked claw. Instantly, the hyena screams, and disappears in a puff of gold, and Sylas falls to the ground, unearthly still.

 

There is a tense pause, as everyone stares at the morbid tableau before them. It is broken by a desperate scream from Delilah, whose face has gone ashen. “How _dare_ you,” she snarls. “He was _everything_ to me, you insolent girl.”

 

“Should have thought of that before you let him _touch_ my daemon, then,” Vex spits back, all fire and fury. “He’ll die a thousand deaths in the pits of hell for that, and you can join him.”

 

“Vex!” Vax calls, just as Delilah’s face contorts in anger. He gets up and runs off the platform of the machine, towards her. Nera, as she usually does, swoops ahead of him, landing on Trinket’s back to stare down Delilah from another angle.

 

“Oh,” Delilah whispers. “You’ll pay for that.”

 

As Vax crosses the room, three things happen simultaneously.

 

One: Delilah looks at Vax, running across the room, notices Nera on the other end of it. She snarls, and reaches over to pull some sort of lever on the machine to her right.

 

Two: Percy takes aim at Delilah’s head, rage bubbling in his veins. He breathes in sharply, and pulls the trigger.

 

Three: Anna pulls her own pistol out from her belt, and runs away from the tableau, coming up towards Vax’s back but keeping a slight distance.

 

Vax sees none of this, but as the gunshot rings out, he hears a whistling from above him. Instinctually, he jerks forward, gazing up just in time to see a shining silver guillotine blade plummet down from where it had been previously anchored, unnoticed, to the top of the ceiling.

 

He rolls forward, trying to avoid the impact, but he’s too late, He feels the blade skim across his back, scraping into his skin and slamming into the floor. There is an explosion of white-hot pain, and he hears Nera scream. The last thing he feels is a strange sensation, as though an invisible hook has sunk itself into his heart, before everything goes black and he knows no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've just gotten into critical role pretty recently and it's become my new obsession. i'm still slowly making my way through season 1, and am currently just starting out the vecna arc - i've already been spoilered for how the chapter ends but please don't spoiler me further my heart already hurts for my poor babies ;o; 
> 
> i started imagining the vox machina gang with daemons, and boom, this fic happened. i swear it was supposed to be a one-shot fic of about 10k words or so, but then the plot....ran away from me, haha. i'm already working through chapter 2 at the moment, but i start my new job tomorrow so i don't know how soon i'll get it done, especially if it turns out to be another monster-length chapter.
> 
> much love to the indispensible irrationaljasmine for betareading, as usual <3
> 
> since all the names can get quite confusing, here's a quick guide to vox machina's daemons:  
> vax'ildan: nera (raven)  
> vex'halia: trinket (brown bear)  
> percival: vesper (white wolf)  
> grog: phillip (samoyed)  
> pike: seren (honey badger)  
> scanlan: aes (meerkat)


	2. won't you bring me / the one i really need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the Long Road to Vasselheim: Vex deals (poorly) with the aftermath of the group's time in Whitestone, while Percy calls in a friend to help in their time of dire need. Pike asks some questions, gets some answers, and then ends up with even more questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New His Dark Materials concepts that may be useful in reading the fic: 
> 
> **Witches.** Witches are humanoid beings with magical powers. Their daemons always take avian forms, and they are Separated from their daemons, meaning witch and daemon can be long distances apart from each other and not feel pain the way humans do. They are generally all female.
> 
> Chapter title from [All I Want For Christmas Is You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jw0ZfyWmkD0) (the Ingrid Michaelson cover).

Percy buries two shots into Delilah’s head (the second for good measure) and watches her hyena daemon explode in a burst of golden light, feeling a burst of cold satisfaction. This, however, only lasts a split second, as he realises that Delilah’s hand has slipped away from a lever from an adjacent panel that has already been engaged.

 

In almost the same instant, there is a screech of pain from behind him, and he spins to see a flash of silver, and Vax’s raven daemon topple gracelessly off Trinket’s back and fall, limp, to the ground.

 

“ _Vax!_ ” Vex screams, and Percy turns again, only to see a limp body dressed in black travelling-clothes, a silver blade attached by a chain to the ceiling now embedded in the floor a hair’s breadth away from the body. The back of Vax’s clothes has been sliced open by the blade, and there is a slow pool of sticky blood pooling on the floor.

 

Percy keeps his gaze on the other side of the body, where Vax’s chest is, and watches, a cold dread overtaking his heart-

 

The chest moves up, faintly, and down again. Vax is alive, for now.

 

“Don’t move any closer,” says a low voice he’s only heard in his nightmares for the past ten years, and Percy’s gaze travels up now to see Vex, staring wide-eyed at her brother’s body. Or, rather, at Doctor Anna Ripley, her coat faintly speckled with red blood, pointing the barrel of her gun directly at Vax’s head.

 

“One step closer, and I’ll put your brother out of his misery,” she spits. “Leave me now without further molestation, and I’ll let you take his body as you go.”

 

“…Is that the silver guillotine?” Percy asks faintly, staring at the shining half-moon blade. “The one you said could perform intercision?”

 

A wry half-smile forms across Ripley’s face. “And if it is, Percival?”

 

“That thing is an abomination, and you’re asking us to leave you with it now that you’ve shown you know how to work it?”

 

Her foul monkey daemon chitters from its perch on his shoulder, and Percy swears it flashes him a mocking grin. “Well, Percival,” she says sweetly. “I’m not telling to leave me with it – you have a choice, after all. Your half-dead friend, or some futile chance at taking ownership of something you could never hope to understand.”

 

Vesper growls in response, stepping up to Percy’s side with her teeth bared. “I bet we could shoot you where you stood,” she snarls.

 

“Can you?” Ripley laughs, squats down and presses the barrel directly to Vax’s temple. “Could you shoot me before I pull the trigger and shoot a bullet into your companion’s brain?”

 

He could. He thinks he could. Unbidden, he remembers being in this exact experimentation room oh so many years ago, Ripley watching her machine’s readings with fascination as Sylas pushes him and Vesper into separate cages, pulls Vesper’s cage out of the room until Percy can feel the edges of their bond stretching to a painful degree. He remembers gasping and sobbing in pain as he feels his soul being dragged away from him, ripping from him like ever so many barbed hooks sunken into his heart and pulled away. He remembers Ripley watching on with cool clinical interest: _That’s the furthest of all the subjects. You’re special, aren’t you, Percival?_

 

Vesper pushes her nose into his hand, murmurs: _hold_.

 

“Percy,” whispers Vex, her voice ragged. “Put your gun down. Please.”

 

Her face is ashen white, but he can see tears brimming at the corners of her eyes as she looks between him and her brother. She looks at him and her eyes are a wealth of pain, and Percy wavers.

 

“That’s right,” Ripley coos. “Listen to the little girl, now.”

 

Percy swallows, and then deliberately telegraphs his movements as he shoves his pistol back into its holster. “I’m going to walk forward now to pick him up,” he says, holding his hands up. “If you shoot, all bets are off, and we’ll dismember you so slowly you’ll _wish_ you were dead.”

 

“Cute,” she drawls in return, but takes two steps back, keeping her gun trained on Vax’s head.

 

Percy starts to step forward, but Grog beats him to it, swinging his sheathed sword over his back to carefully pick Vax’s body in his giant hands.

 

“I can’t- I can’t hold his daemon,” Grog says, looking lost. But Trinket rumbles, leans down and picks up the little avian body gently in his jaws. He follows Grog as they lead the way out of the laboratory; Percy brings up the rear, turns back one last time to see Ripley gazing serenely at him, free hand resting casually on the chain of the guillotine blade.

 

It feels like the wrong decision. But somehow, it also feels like the _right_ decision. Percy swallows, hopes fervently that his decision to leave Ripley here with all of the Briarwoods’ machinery won’t lead to horrible consequences, and turns to exit the room as well.

 

~

 

Vex is trembling as they stumble out onto the snow, her eyes fixed onto Vax’s limp form. Grog walks quickly, as though trying to get away from the house; ten minutes or so later, he stops and sits down, gently laying Vax out face-down. Trinket gently lays down Nera onto Vax’s back, and she makes a small sound of distress even in unconsciousness, shifting into the form of a small ermine to curl at the back of Vax’s neck. Normally, Vex would be highly conscious of showing off Nera’s ability to shapeshift in front of strangers, but right now she doesn’t care anymore. Besides, she figures that Delilah had already announced their curious ability to the room at large – one more demonstration wouldn’t hurt.

 

She grabs her brother’s wrist urgently, and breathes a sigh of relief when she feels his heart beating, slow and sluggish but _there_.

 

“Thank goodness we raided their study before all this happened,” Kima says, flopping on the ground next to Grog. “I’m pants at medical stuff, but I have some spare clothes in my pack that can be torn and boiled for bandages.”

 

Vex nods, too exhausted for words, and Kima’s black panther daemon turns and begins to rummage through her pack. Pike comes up from behind Kima, pulling a small canvas bag out from the pouch she wears around her waist.

 

“I don’t know how much it’ll help, but I picked up some medicinal herbs in Westruun,” she says quietly. “Shall I take a look?”

 

So Vex watches as Pike gently peels back the torn remains of Vax’s travelling clothes, frowns, and then begins to pull small packets out of the bag. “Grog,” Pike says, “is my pack with you? I shall need my mortar and pestle.”

 

A mortar and pestle, to Vex, is a heavy stone bowl and crushing implement she has seen before in the kitchens of Syngorn College, used to grind various spices and herbs into an aromatic paste. The tool Pike pulls out of her pack is similar yet different; a flat stone on which the herbs are placed, and a rounder stone with which to grind them. Most of the herbs Vex does not recognise, some dark green leaves and some sprays with yellow-gold flowers, but Pike grinds all of them up into a fragrant paste with a slight bitter note to it, as Kima begins to rip up her spare shirts and Grog begins to build a fire to boil the rags.

 

“I wish we had bloodmoss,” Percy says quietly, looking on. “It grows abundantly further north, where the armoured bears live, and it can stop bleeding for a time, and prevent infection. But I don’t think any of it grows near Whitestone.”

 

“I wish I knew _anything_ about healing,” replies Vex, wretchedly. “He’s all I hold dear in this world, and I can’t do anything to stop him from dying except hold his hand.”

 

“Healing,” murmurs Percy, and then, suddenly, he sits bolt upright. “ _Healing_ ,” he says to Vesper – it takes a moment, but she seems to come to the same conclusion as he (whatever it is), and her eyes widen.

 

“Will she come?”

 

“She promised she’d come if we call,” Percy says, distracted now, fumbling through the pockets of his coat. Eventually, his hand emerges from the inside of his coat, clenched. He unfurls the fingers, and Vex sees a small wooden spray with two red flowers, looking slightly crushed but otherwise surprisingly healthy for flowers that have been sitting in a coat pocket for an unknown, extended period of time.

 

Vesper pads forward and peers at the flowers. “Is it one to call her and one to find us, do you think?”

 

Percy frowns. “It’s too much of a risk if we keep going and hope she can find us. We’ll head to the Consulate – she should know to head there, I suspect.”

 

He pulls one of the flowers off the spray and crushes it between his fingers, before letting the petals fall. “I have a travelling companion who is gravely hurt,” he murmurs quietly to the petals as they fly away, carried on the cold evening breeze. “Please, come quickly. I will be heading to the Consulate.”

 

Vex watches Percy watch the petals for a moment, before he shoves the remaining flower into his coat pocket and gets to his feet. “We need to get Vax back to the balloon,” he says. “I hope you don’t mind a slight detour east before we head to Vasselheim University. I know a place where we might be able to get healing for your brother.”

 

“We can’t jostle him,” Vex whispers. “We’d have to go slowly.”

 

Percy nods. “I shall go ahead,” he says, “and set up the balloon. It will be ready to go the moment the rest of you arrive.”

 

He begins to pull away out of the firelight. “Percy,” Vex says, calling him back, and he turns. In the flickering light of the fire and the diminishing light of the sunset giving his white hair a golden hue, he seems almost otherworldly as he turns back to her.

 

“Thank you,” she says, meaning it from the bottom of her heart.

 

“Hurry over,” he says in return, before he and Vesper turn and begin briskly run-walking into the darkness.

 

~

 

Pike bandages up Vax’s back as best she can, smearing her herbal paste all over the wound. It’s not the shallowest of cuts, and she winces even as she tries to pack the paste into the wound as well as around it. Eventually, though, he’s wrapped up in enough layers of bandages that blood doesn’t immediately begin to seep through, and Pike lets out a breath she didn’t realise she’d been holding.

 

Vex tells them of Percy’s plan, and of this mysterious person he calls who seems to be versed in healing. Pike is glad for it, because she knows that her knowledge of herblore is rather insufficient for an injury of this scale.

 

In the end, it takes them almost twice the amount of time it took to originally get to Whitestone to slowly trudge through the snow in the night, Grog carefully carrying Vax’s limp body and Kima guarding it warily. But they eventually make it back to the small town and the house with the burn on its roof as evening turns to night, and night turns to the cusp of daybreak, the faintest cracks of cerulean blue beginning to slip through the night sky. Bone-deep exhaustion is beginning to settle in Pike’s limbs, and she sees Vex staggering a little with every step, but the balloon is just ahead, Percy perched on the lip of the basket with a gun on his lap, watching.

 

“C’mon, Vex,” Pike murmurs. “The balloon’s just ahead, we can sleep soon.”

 

They carefully load Vax into the balloon first, before the rest of them clamber in. Vex and Trinket immediately sequester a corner of the balloon and curl up, instantly falling asleep. Pike, on the other hand, settles within arm’s reach of Vax in case the bandages need changing later on.

 

The blonde woman who’d followed them out of the laboratories, who Vex had introduced as “Kima”, settles down next to her. Pike watches as she fumbles in her pack and pulls out a black velvet pouch bigger than her palm, peers inside, and then sags slightly in relief.

 

“Didn’t think to check if they’d taken it in all the hurry,” Kima says quietly to her daemon, Xymor. “Thank goodness they thought it useless without the knowledge of how to read it.”

 

“Don’t think they thought we’d take our pack back,” Xymor returns dryly.

 

Pike peers over. “Is that your alethiometer?” she asks, and Kima jumps, hiding away the pouch almost defensively. Pike holds her hands up. “Sorry, I was just… curious, I guess. Vex told me she was looking for you because you had one, and I’ve only ever heard of it in stories. I just wanted to see it.”

 

Kima eyes her for a moment, then shrugs. “You saved my life, and I doubt you can run away with it when we’re up in a balloon in the sky,” she says dryly. “Here.” She reaches for the black velvet pouch once more and opens it, pulling out a large round disc made of gold.

 

Only, it isn’t a disc. She flips it around, and Pike sees the artifact now in its full glory. A dial containing thirty-six delicately-drawn symbols around its perimeter sits in a casing of quartz crystal, looking like a pocketwatch the size of her hand but with four hands instead of two. Three of the hands on the dial are short, and the fourth, a spindly long needle, is currently swinging erratically between symbols; on the rim, she sees three evenly-spaced turning-knobs.

 

“It’s beautiful,” Pike whispers, tracing a finger around the alethiometer’s face. “How does it work? Do you speak the question to it?”

 

“Beats me,” Kima shrugs. “I don’t know how to read it, I’m just good enough with a sword to ferry it relatively safely. I know you turn the dials, and then you just… stare into it. Then five hours later you have an answer, or something.”

 

Pike gazes down at the alethiometer. “Can I try?” she asks. “I mean, I know I don’t really know how to use it or anything, but… you know.”

 

Kima snorts. “Knock yourself out, I guess,” she says. “Won’t do any harm.”

 

Seren clambers up onto her lap to peer at the symbols as well. “I want to ask if Vax’ll be okay,” she murmurs, and Seren hums. “D’you think we just turn the dials to symbols that represent what we want to know?”

 

“Maybe,” he says. “The bird could be Vax, because Nera’s a bird.”

 

That’s easy enough – Pike turns the dial until one of the short hands rests on the symbol of the bird. The other two, though: “I don’t know what symbol would represent ‘okay’,” Seren admits.

 

Pike squints. “There’s something that looks like an anchor,” she says. “Boats use anchors to stay in one place, right? Maybe it could represent Vax staying with us.”

 

Seren doesn’t seem convinced, but doesn’t protest as she turns the second dial. Instead, his snout prods at a symbol further to the top. “There’s a skull on top of the hourglass in that one,” he says. “Like death.”

 

“I’m not going to _ask_ if Vax is going to die,” snaps Pike, upset, the image of his still body lying in a pool of blood flashing before her eyes.

 

Seren snorts. “Asking if he’s okay is like asking if he won’t die, isn’t it? It’s the same thing.”

 

“Fine,” she says, and turns the third wheel. She gazes at the face of the device as the fourth hand begins to swing in a new pattern, and thinks: _will Vax be okay?_

 

The pattern of symbols that the hand swings to appears random, and sometimes it twitches on a symbol once of twice only to stop on it at a later point in the cycle. Pike feels overwhelmed, and feels herself begin to zone out a little.

 

In that instant, as her vision blurs and she focuses more on the question than the pattern of the hand, she sees: a tree, a lightning bolt, a beautiful woman. In her head, she almost _hears_ a voice speaking to her, connecting the symbols into an answer, and she gasps, blinking wide awake and coming into full focus. She’s sitting up in the basket of the balloon, breathing heavily, and Kima’s staring at her.

 

“You alright?”

 

“It _spoke_ to me,” Pike whispers. “I asked if Vax was going to be okay, and it said- well, I don’t know what the symbols mean, but it told me that they mean he’s going to be okay, that a woman is going to come and help. His fate hasn’t come to an end.”

 

Kima is outright staring now, looking slightly spooked. “I’m not sure if that’s your wishful thinking,” she says slowly. “There’s no way you just read the alethiometer without any learning at all.”

 

“No, I don’t think so either,” Pike says slowly, handing it back to Kima, who immediately places it into her black velvet pouch and stows it in a hidden compartment of her pack.

 

But even as she settles down to sleep, she can’t shake the voice in her back of her head, the one that had told her the answer hidden in the symbols. It’s light, almost like a song from the stars.

 

~

 

When Vex wakes, groggy and still with a hint of exhaustion clinging to her bones, it’s to see Percy snoring softly nearby, and Pike peering carefully at Vax’s bandages while Grog keeps an eye on the navigation controls of the balloon.

 

“How is he?” Vex whispers, careful not to wake Percy. Somehow, she gets the sense that he’s been flying the balloon through the night, and probably needs his rest.

 

Pike looks at her with a little worried frown, worrying her lip between her teeth. “Not getting better,” she confesses, and on closer inspection Vex notices that her pestle and mortar bear the signs of a fresh grinding of herbs not too long ago. “Not getting worse either, though, so I think the herbs are at least preventing infection from setting in, though I might be running out of them in another dose or two.”

 

“We’re also running out of shirts to rip up,” Kima says dryly, “and I don’t think you would want to re-use those.” She jerks her head to the far corner of the basket, where Vex can make out a pile of cloths stained with brown, green, and dark red.

 

“Well, let’s hope we get to wherever Percy was heading soon, then.”

 

They sail in silence for a couple more hours, Vex watching as Pike alternates between helping Grog steer the balloon and glancing over her shoulder at Kima, for some inexplicable reason Vex can’t fathom.

 

Around midday (or what feels like midday, going by the heat of the sun), Vex hears the sound of wingbeats approaching. Reflexively, she reaches for her crossbow and brings it around, looking for a target to aim at-

 

And she stops short.

 

There, fluttering down to perch on the edge of the basket, is a _massive_ white bird that Vex thinks is an albatross. It cocks its head at her with a strangely keen intelligence.

 

“Greetings,” Trinket rumbles, and the bird’s head nods in greeting. This, Vex realises with a cold thrill, is not an ordinary bird, but a _daemon_. A daemon _without a human_.

 

She feels a little sick and about to throw up, but the bird hasn’t been hostile yet and she doesn’t want to offend it, so she buries her face in Trinket’s side for a moment instead.

 

“Hello,” says the bird daemon, his voice a smooth tenor. He points his beak to where Vax lies, on his stomach, in the centre of the basket. “Is this the one who was injured?”

 

Vex can only stare, stunned, for a moment, but Pike gasps. “Are you the friend Percy called?” she asks.

 

At the sound of the gasp, Percy groans and rolls over, blinking his eyes open blearily. Vesper gets to her paws slowly and yawns once, shaking her head, before opening her eyes to stare at the bird daemon.

 

“Mynxi,” she says quietly. “Thank you for coming.”

 

“Keyleth is on her way,” replies the bird daemon, Mynxi. “She bade me come examine the injury first, to determine whether she needs to prepare any spells or special herbs beforehand.”

 

“You’d best take a look,” Percy says, sitting up and rubbing at his left eye.

 

Taking this as permission, the bird hops into the basket, and Vex has to lean back a little to avoid the bird’s giant wings brushing against her. The daemon does not touch Vax, of course, but he peers closely at the bandages, asks Pike to unravel them temporarily so he can have a closer look.

 

“What caused this wound?” he asks after a while. “There is a strange energy about it.”

 

Percy sighs. “There is a silver guillotine in Whitestone,” he says. “Members of the Conclave have learned how to use it, and Vax got in the way of the blade.”

 

“It didn’t… _sever_ him, did it?” Mynxi’s voice trembles on the word _sever_ , a mix of horror and disgust.

 

“Thankfully, no. He and his daemon were on the same side on the blade when it fell, but it caught his back as he tried to escape it.”

 

The bird makes a noise that Vex recognises as a frustrated sigh, a small sound through the beak that Nera has made many a time in the past. “Wounds of the soul are not easily healed with herbs,” it says, thoughtfully. “We will have some spells prepared. You are headed to House Draconia?”

 

“To the Consul, yes.”

 

Mynxi nods, and hops back up onto the rim of the basket. “We will meet you there in a day, Percival de Rolo. May the winds be at your back.”

 

“And at yours. Fly safe.”

 

With that, the daemon spreads his massive wings and takes off, gliding on the currents swirling around the balloon and disappearing into the clouds. Percy sighs and fishes for his spectacles, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “A day is good news,” he says, getting to his feet. “We will probably reach in less than a day, as well.”

 

“Percy? Was that bird a daemon?” Vex asks. “A daemon without a human?”

 

“Hm? Oh. He has a human, don’t you worry,” Percy says. “Keyleth is a witch, and their daemons are Separated from them as they come of age. Mynxi can fly as far as he wants, and it will not hurt her as it hurts us.”

 

A _witch_. This adventure is becoming more and more like the stories Vex used to read as a child: first alethiometers, then flying balloons, mad scientists, and now a witch. Aside from what is printed in stories, Vex knows precious little about witches – they do magic, they fly in the air, and they are always women.

 

“And you trust this… Keyleth?”

 

“With our life,” Percy affirms. “She has saved my life on several occasions, as I have saved hers. She is a good friend, and knowledgeable in the healing arts.”

 

“Very well,” sighs Vex, and she shuffles forward to take her brother’s cold, clammy hand in her own. Percy nods to her once more and rises, walking up to take over the controls from Grog. She watches him go, then turns her attention back to Vax.

 

“Hey,” she whispers. “If you can hear me, Vax, please…”

 

She trails off, feeling the slight burn of tears, and sniffs hard to fight them back. “Do not go far from me, alright? Please. I need you here.”

 

~

 

_All around him is misty darkness._

_“Sister!” he calls. “Where are you?”_

_His voice echoes in the darkness like a ghostly chorus, before even the echoes fade and he is once again left alone. Spooked, he reaches up to his shoulder to pet his daemon for comfort, but his fingers meet nothing but empty air._

_He looks around frantically, but there is no other being in sight. Fear begins to grip his heart, as he realises that he is alone in this strange dimension._

_“Help!” he shouts now. “Where am I?”_

_Nothing appears before him, but a voice speaks. It doesn’t boom out loud, nor is it a whisper; it is a quiet voice pitched at just the right volume for him to barely make out the words; too deep to be female yet too light to be male._

**_Your fate does not end here, Soulshifter._ **

_He looks around frantically, but cannot find the source of the voice. “Send me back, then,” he calls out. “I need to go back. My sister needs me.”_

**_Follow the light_ ** _, says the voice, and there is quiet once more. He looks around, but there is no shining beacon of light in any direction; wherever he looks, there is only fine mist and darkness beyond._

_“What light?” he whispers. “How do I follow it?”_

_His voice once again echoes into the quiet, but there comes no reply._

 

~

 

There is a strained silence in the basket as they fly through the night, Percy once more steering the basket while Vesper watches over their sleeping bodies until the sunrise. Pike volunteers to stay up with him, but Percy shakes his head. “You’ve been tending to Vax’s wound all day,” he says quietly. “Get some rest. We’ll be alright.”

 

It is thus to the early hues of sunrise that Pike awakens, just before the basket of the balloon jostles against hard ground. All around them is no longer the cold clouds of the upper sky, but instead she can make out a line of trees, and early morning birds startled by the landing of the balloon.

 

“We’re here?” she asks, sitting up and rubbing at her eyes as everyone else in the basket begins to stir as well.

 

“Yes,” says Percy. “I will go and announce our arrival; Grog, you can follow slowly with Vax, please.”

 

Percy hops out of the basket, and Pike clambers out to accompany him. The balloon has landed on a patch of grass not far from a single three-storey brick house, with light cotton curtains hanging at every window and the symbol of a dragon in flight etched onto the wooden double-doors. Percy reaches up for a silken bell-pull on the side of the door, and as he yanks it Pike can hear a low, sweet sound of a large bell being rung.

 

Not but a minute later, the door is opened, and a scholarly-looking middle-aged man peers out curiously at them. Dark-skinned with long auburn hair tied smartly in a single braid like some of the Scholars Pike’s seen around Emon College, and a pair of frameless glass spectacles perched on his nose, he looks more like someone who could be found in a library rather than any sort of healing-house. His dress, however, suggests otherwise – a fine set of silken robes, and an intricate golden brooch pinned at the collar, seem almost too noble to be found on a Scholar.

 

Even more curious is the absence of a daemon by his side. Pike is momentarily startled, but then remembers the albatross-daemon of the witch. Perhaps, she muses, this man is also some kind of witch, with his daemon far away from him.

 

“Good morning, Consul Stormwind,” says Percy. “We are to meet with Keyleth of the Zephrah clan here – we have a badly-injured companion with us and she has agreed to assist us in the healing.”

 

“Mm, she sent word, yes,” says the Consul (of what, exactly, Pike has no idea). “You must be Percival de Rolo. Come! I have had the infirmary prepared. Your balloon will not come to harm if you leave it where you have.”

 

He beckons, and all of them traipse in, Grog pushing past Pike with Vax in his arms to follow after Percy.

 

The “infirmary” appears to be more of a repurposed workroom on the second floor of the house, with a single bed positioned right by the window. Potted herbs and other plants adorn the shelves, the windowsill, and even hang in aerial planters from the ceiling, lending a calming air to the room.

 

Grog gently lays Vax down, and Vex immediately throws herself into the one chair sitting by the bed. The Consul gazes between her and Vax, and his eyes soften slightly, as though in understanding.

 

“Come, the rest of you,” he says. “Her Highness will be arriving soon, and I am not sure if she will want all of you in the room while she works. We have breakfast prepared.”

 

Pike suppresses a smile as she sees Grog’s eyes light up at the prospect of food (or, perhaps more accurately, food that isn’t the cold bread and cheese they’ve been eating for most of the balloon journey). Indeed, back on the first floor of the house there is a dining-room to the side, and the table is laid with steaming plates of warm meats, gently-wobbling eggs, and freshly-baked crusty bread.

 

As they sit and begin to eat, the man introduces himself as Tiberius Stormwind, diplomatic Consul to the witch clans. “I was quite surprised to receive the missive from Her Highness,” he says to Percy, tearing into a piece of bread. “The last we spoke, she was far to the south on a mission for her queen.”

 

“It was an emergency,” Percy replies, serving himself from a pot of beans in the centre of the table. “If I hadn’t had a way to contact her immediately, I fear our companion might have been in more dire straits.”

 

“Sorry,” Pike speaks up, too curious now. “Why do you call this Keyleth a Highness? Is she a witch princess?”

 

“Not exactly,” replies Consul Stormwind, “though she is the daughter of her clan queen, and next in line to take leadership.”

 

“And are you a witch, too? I don’t mean to be rude for asking, I was just curious because-”

 

“-Because my daemon’s not with me?” The Consul’s smile is wry, but he doesn’t seem offended, so Pike breathes a small sigh of relief. “Witches are always female, my dear. Though my mother was a witch, I am not; my position as Consul is the closest I can get to being one of them. My Lockheed _is_ Separated from me in the _ashari_ tradition, however, which is why I am presently daemonless. Her Highness required a particular herb, and Lockheed flew out to retrieve it before her arrival.”

 

“What’s an ashari?”

 

Next to her, she can feel Grog snort quietly as he doubles his efforts to tuck into the meal, clearly bored by the anthropology lesson.

 

“The _ashari_ are the witches. That is the word they use to name themselves, in witch-tongue,” replies the Consul, voice taking on a slight academic tone. “The _ashari_ of this land are divided into four clans, one of which is Zephrah, where Her Highness hails from. They are famed for their healing knowledge, superior to all the other clans. Your friend will be in good hands.”

 

Almost at that moment, there is a sharp rap on the door outside in the main hall. “Tiberius?” calls a light female voice from the other side, faint from all the way in the dining-room. “It’s me, Keyleth.”

 

“Ah. Excuse me a moment.”

 

Consul Stormwind stands, and leaves the room. Pike hears a short murmured conversation, before he returns, a woman with the large albatross daemon perched on her shoulder entering after him. She is dressed in curious attire – light green sleeveless robes with a slight ragged hem, a golden filigree circlet nestled in flame-red hair, and no shoes on her feet.

 

“Percy!” she gasps in delight, and runs forward to embrace him as the daemon, startled, flies off her shoulder. “It’s so good to see you again.”

 

“I wish it could have been under better circumstances,” replies Percy, a little somberly, and the woman wilts.

 

“Mynxi told me. Dreadful business indeed, with that silver guillotine. I can’t believe there was one in Whitestone, I thought we had all of them under watch.”

 

“Highness,” interrupts the Consul, “the injured man is in the infirmary upstairs, and he seems to be in a bad way. Perhaps you should head there, first.”

 

~

 

Vex can hear muffled voices coming up the stairs, but she ignores them in favour of trying to adjust Vax’s head to lie more comfortably on the pillow (or, well, as comfortably as is possible when one is lying flat on their belly with a daemon balanced on their back).

 

“-send them up once he finds them,” an unfamiliar voice says as the door clicks open. “I’ll only need them at the second stage, anyway, so it’s not that urgent- Oh!”

 

The speaker breaks off with a startled squeak, and Vex turns to see a redheaded young woman standing in the door and staring at her. At first glance, the woman looks like some sort of lost traveler, with her bare feet and windswept hair and ragged green clothing. But then she notices the spark of intelligence in the woman’s green eyes, the large albatross daemon perched on her shoulder, and the small red flowers, so similar to the ones Percy had pulled from his coat, woven into the circlet that sits on the woman’s head, and realises: This must be the witch.

 

“Hi,” says the witch in a small voice. “Um. I wasn’t expecting anyone else to be up here.”

 

“He’s my brother,” Vex returns, with a weary smile. “I’d like to stay at his side, if you don’t mind.”

 

“Oh! Not at all, really. I just need a little bit of space to set up.”

 

Mynxi, the albatross daemon, makes a chuffing noise low in his beak, and nods in greeting to Vex and Trinket. He hops off his human’s shoulder and flies to perch on the windowsill, as the witch pulls out a small leather satchel and begins to pull out beaded amulets and small pouches of herbs, set them out on the worktable in the room.

 

After she’s done, she pulls out a small crystal from the bag and cradles it in both her hands.

 

“Do- do you mind if I touch him?” she asks Vex, walking closer. “I need to divine the nature of the injury before I can cast the proper spells.”

 

Vex inclines her head, and steps back to watch the witch work. She seems a little nervous, and Vex feels a mild sense of irritation that this promised healer doesn’t seem to be as confident in her skills as would have been ideal. The witch sits cross-legged on the chair, places one hand on Vax’s back and grips the crystal in the other, eyes closed with a slight frown. One second passes, then two, three, four. Suddenly, the crystal begins to glow with a soft red light, and the witch’s frown deepens.

 

After a short while of this, the witch sighs and opens her eyes again. The crystal, still glowing red, is placed on the small table next to the head of the bed, and the witch looks instead at her daemon.

 

“The soul’s been jostled, but not misaligned,” she says, in a brisk tone rather different from before. She doesn’t look at Vex, her laser focus seemingly now on her daemon and the task before her. “A relatively superficial spiritual wound, it seems.”

 

“The moonstone, perhaps,” murmurs the daemon. “And keep some sage burning throughout.”

 

“Good idea.”

 

The witch stands up and walks over to the workbench, picking up a bunch of dark green leaves, and an amulet with a pearlescent white stone. She holds the leaves to her lips, breathes on them, and then holds them up to the candle burning on the table, letting them catch fire. Soon, a smoky scent begins to fill the room, subtle and calming. This done, she comes back to the side of the bed, and places the amulet directly on the base of Vax’s neck, right above the injured area.

 

“What’s your brother’s full name?” she asks, and Vex starts, not having expected to be spoken to during this process.

 

“Vax’ildan,” she says, and the witch nods, places a hand on the moonstone amulet, and closes her eyes once more in concentration, beginning to murmur some sort of chant under her breath.

 

~

 

_He has been walking around in the mist for a while, trying to find a way out. There is no light here beyond the faint, sourceless illumination that allows him to see the mist in the first place. It’s a strange feeling, not having his daemon by his side, but he can sense that she is still with him somehow, present like a silhouette illuminated behind a pane of frosted glass: there, but obscured and blurred._

_“Where is the light?” he calls once more, as he has been doing for the past… hour? Day? Week? He has no way to tell the passage of time in this mistscape, and he wonders if any time has passed at all in the waking world._

**_Do not go far from me_ ** _, he thinks he hears his sister say at some point. He wants to shout, “Come, I am here!”, but there is no reply._

**_Vax’ildan_ ** _, says a new voice now, one he hasn’t heard before. **Come to the light.**_

_He whirls, and sees something that definitely was not there before: A softly-glowing mote of light hovering in midair, a hand sticking out from it and outstretched towards him. It is not his sister’s hand, though it also bears calluses from frequent practice with a bow; unlike his sister’s, this hand is adorned with a delicate gold ring in the shape of intertwined leaves, and several tangled bracelets of flowers hanging from the wrist._

**_Come_ ** _, says the new voice again._

_Not knowing what else to do, he reaches out and grasps the hand in his own. **This will hurt just a little** , it says, but before he can react, the hand tugs back with surprising force, and he is pulled roughly forward towards the glowing light-_

Vax opens his eyes with a gasp, and immediately squints them shut again as the bright light of the sun hits them. He groans, feeling a crick in his neck, and realises that he’s lying on his front with his head tilted awkwardly to the side on the pillow.

 

“Steady,” says a soft voice from behind him, the same one that he had heard not but a moment before in his mind. He turns his head awkwardly on the pillow to face the other direction, and meets the concerned gaze of a beautiful woman, green eyes wide and freckles like delicate constellations scattered across her cheeks.

 

“Am I dead?” he rasps, and the woman quirks a wry smile.

 

“I should hope not,” she says. “That would put my efforts quite to waste.”

 

“Thought you were an angel,” he mumbles before he can think the better of it. As he says this, he hears a loud snort from the foot of the bed, and the woman’s face turns scarlet and she almost falls out of her chair.

 

“Um,” she squeaks, and then jumps out of the chair, red all the way to her ears. “I’ll, uh, go and see if Tiberius has found the antiseptic herbs.”

 

The door slams behind her in her haste, and he hears a laugh as Vex enters his vision, sitting down on the chair that the other woman had vacated. “You’re unconscious for _ages_ , and the first thing you do when you wake is to try to charm a lady?” she asks, the amusement not hiding the naked relief in her eyes.

 

Nera stirs and groans. “I feel _awful_ ,” she says. “What happened?”

 

She flops down off his back, and Vax immediately notices that she’s a small ermine, rather than her usual raven form. He’s about to ask her to change back, when an unfamiliar voice speaks from the window.

 

“You were injured by a blade that, if wielded correctly, could have severed the bond between you and your daemon,” it says. Vax hears the sound of wingbeats, and then a massive white bird flies over and perches on a table on the end of the room, within Vax’s line of sight. Some sort of daemon, perhaps, except its corresponding human is nowhere in sight, which slightly unnerves Vax. “As it is, you apparently managed to keep it from slicing the space between you and your daemon, so the bond is preserved. However, since it caused you a flesh injury, the properties of the blade caused your soul to be jostled out of alignment with your body, hence you fell into a state of unconsciousness until Keyleth managed to pull you back. I’d advise you not to move – the wound itself it still healing, and we’d prefer if you did not stretch the skin.”

 

It’s a lot of information at one go, especially since Vax’s brain feels a little like mush, and he grasps at the one thing he catches from the spiel – a name. “Keyleth?” he asks.

 

“My human,” the bird says dryly. “Not an angel, unfortunately, but we are of witch-blood, so that might come rather close.”

 

Vax feels _his_ face now burn with mortification. “Ugh,” he groans, and turns to press his face into the pillow as if that might erase the embarrassment. “I’m a little out of it.”

 

“You are spiritually exhausted,” agrees the bird daemon. “Rest. Keyleth will be back soon to treat your flesh wound, but the more you rest the faster your body will assist in the healing process.”

 

Vex runs a hand through his hair comfortingly. “Sleep, brother,” she says. “I’ll be by your side when you wake again.”

 

“Alright,” sighs Vax. He closes his eyes, and sleeps.

 

~

 

The door creaks open, and Vex turns to see Keyleth poking her head in, sheepishly. The fiery blush from before has since faded, but there is still some residual pink on her cheeks and the tips of her ears. (It’s kind of cute, if Vex is honest, even though it had been Vax who’d put the blush there, and the idea of _cute_ and _Vax_ in any related fashion makes her want to throw up in her mouth.)

 

“Um,” says Keyleth. “I’ve brought up some fresh antiseptic salve.”

 

“He’s sleeping,” Vex says warmly. “But maybe that’s for the best, hm?”

 

Keyleth flushes a little darker, and her daemon makes an amused noise, a cross between a chirrup and a hacking caw. This, at least, is avian behaviour Vex is familiar with, even if everything else about the witch is a little foreign and strange.

 

The witch walks into the room, holding a small earthen bowl in her hands from which the faint smell of herbs and green earth emanates. She sets it down by the bedside table, and Vex peers over to see a thick green paste, with a curious silvery shimmer in its depths. Keyleth then neatly cuts open the bandages to examine the wound in Vax’s back. The wound is still as deep as before, slightly puffy on the edges, but not looking particularly infected, and Vex breathes a silent breath of gratitude for Pike’s foresight in bringing medicinal herbs.

 

“Your friend Pike, downstairs, said she’d applied some goldenrod salve,” Keyleth says, poking experimentally at the edge of the injury. “If she hadn’t, your brother’s injury would be much worse than it is now. This new salve should draw out any lingering infection and accelerate the healing a little, but it will still be a week before it would be safe to take the bandages off.”

 

A _week_. For that deep and extensive of an injury, Vex honestly would have expected much longer. Perhaps, she muses, those tales that the witch-clans practice strange magics were not entirely unfounded, after all.

 

“A week is already a miracle,” Trinket rumbles, echoing her thoughts. “Better than we could have hoped for.”

 

Keyleth laughs, a little self-consciously, and Vex thinks that perhaps the witch hasn’t heard many compliments in however long she has lived – she certainly reacts like she’s not used to accepting them. “Even then, his skin will be tender for a good while more,” she says. “But it is my pleasure to help – any friend of Percy is a friend of mine.”

 

Vex watches as the green salve is applied with deft fingers up and down the length of the deep cut, and all across the parts of Vax’s back where the skin has been scraped away. The curl of sage smoke, still hanging in the air, mingles with the fresh herbal scent of the salve to fill the room with a pleasantly heady aroma. Vex breathes in deeply, and despite the smoke in the room it makes her feel as calm and refreshed as a breath of cool air just after a rainstorm.

 

Finally, Keyleth walks back to her satchel and pulls out a roll of fresh linen bandages, discarding the old ones made from strips of Kima’s shirts and gently wrapping Vax’s back up. Vex helps, lifting her brother’s sleeping body so Keyleth can awkwardly reach around and pull the bandages taut. Vax sleeps soundly through it all, perhaps a sign as to the toll the injury and healing process had taken on him.

 

A faint glimmer catches Vex’s eye then, and she looks over to see that the crystal Keyleth had placed on the bedside table, previously a ruby red, is now glowing a soft golden-yellow. Keyleth follows her gaze, and hums.

 

“Just a simple diagnostic charm,” she says. “Yellow means he’s not well yet, but stable; red means something’s gone wrong. Will you be staying with Vax’ildan? If not, I could stay here for a bit while you catch a nap.”

 

Vex looks over at her brother’s face, now a little more peaceful in slumber. “I think I’ll stay here a while longer,” she says, softly, and Keyleth smiles in understanding.

 

“Alert us if the crystal turns red again.”

 

Mynxi flies over to perch on Keyleth’s outstretched arm, and with a final nod, the two of them leave the room, leaving Vex alone with Trinket and her sleeping brother.

 

~

 

Pike hopes fervently that Consul Stormwind doesn't mind them staying for so long in his house. It’s been a solid half a week, and Vax has been getting better, but he’ll still be bedbound for a while. Today the Consul and Keyleth have gone out on an herb-gathering errand, but everyone else has come up to the infirmary to keep Vax company while Vex naps.

 

“It was really surreal,” Vax is saying, in response to Grog’s question of what being unconscious had felt like. He’s propped up against the pillows in the bed, shirt hanging open to show a swathe of pristine bandages, and Nera is once more a raven perched quietly on the bedpost. If anyone is curious about the fact that she can actually change her shape, nobody says a thing.

 

“Was it like, dreamin’?”

 

“Perhaps,” laughs Vax. “I was in a really misty place, and this voice kept saying that my fate wouldn’t end here. It was weird, alright.”

 

A moment, and then Pike stiffens as the words sink in. Seren straightens beside her, eyes gleaming in interest.

 

“It said your fate wasn’t supposed to end here?” Pike asks, remembering the curious message she’d gotten from the alethiometer.

 

( _A tree, a lightning bolt, a beautiful woman_ )

 

“Yeah,” says Vax, sounding a bit bemused that this is the part she’s chosen to pick up. Seren makes a smug sound, and they both look to Kima, slouched against the wall, not paying attention until she realises that the entire room is now staring at her.

 

“What?”

 

“The-” Pike looks around, and realises that Grog and Percy might not know about the alethiometer. “ _It_ told me. That a woman was going to come and help Vax get better, and that his fate wouldn’t end here. You remember.”

 

Kima’s eyes widen for a second, before they narrow again. “Could’ve been a fluke,” she says. “No offence or anything, but I’ve seen Scholars take decades before they can even begin to use it.”

 

Vax, who Pike is pretty sure knows what they’re talking about, wriggles awkwardly upwards with a look of interest in his eyes. “You could test it out,” he suggests.

 

Kima shoots a covert glance over at Percy and Grog, though she’s probably not as subtle as she thinks she is, because Percy clears his throat and stands up from the bedside chair. “I am going to check on the condition of my balloon,” he says, the excuse thin and flimsy but nevertheless one Pike is grateful for. “Grog, would you care to join me?”

 

Well, Pike muses, thin and flimsy for everyone except Grog, for whom social subtleties often don’t make sense or are ignored entirely. “Sure,” he agrees genially. Phillip glances over at Pike and Seren, a response they’ve seen many times growing up: _is this safe?_

 

Seren inclines his head, and leans forward to touch his nose to Phillip’s: _trust us._ The large white dog nods once, and turns to follow Grog and Percy out of the room.

 

Once the door slams shut, Vax turns back to Kima and Pike. “I didn’t know you knew about it,” he says, interestedly, and Pike smiles.

 

“Vex told me,” she says, “but swore me to secrecy. I tried to read it once, when you were- well. When we were on the way here.”

 

Kima slowly fishes out the black velvet pouch from where it’s kept in an oilskin bag hanging at her side. Pike might have thought her reluctant to take out such a precious artifact to experiment with as though it were a child’s toy, but there’s a gleam of curiosity in her blue eyes as she hands over the heavy golden compass, and a twitch in Xymor’s tail that belies their interest.

 

“Ask me something I wouldn’t know,” Pike says eagerly, grasping the alethiometer in both her hands and staring down at the tiny symbols around the dial once more.

 

“Ask it what I got for my sister for our birthday last year,” Vax suggests, peering over with interest, as Nera badly stifles an amused caw.

 

Pike, intrigued, begins to twist the dials. The bird, for Vax, is easy, since she’s used that before. There isn’t a bear on the alethiometer, and Pike briefly toys with the idea of using the woman to represent Vex, but somehow it doesn’t feel right.

 

“Maybe the chameleon,” murmurs Seren lowly, “since she’s so changeable.”

 

Pike thinks of Vex, coolly watching as her daemon rips out the throat of another. “No,” she whispers. “The tree, maybe. She stands firm.”

 

This feels right even as she says it, and before Seren can hum his agreement Pike has turned the second wheel into place. For the third wheel, Pike can’t seem to find anything that might symbolise _birthday_ on the alethiometer, but she does spot a symbol of a large cone-like object with assorted fruits spilling out from inside it – some sort of cornucopia. That, she muses, should do for a _gift_.

 

The three dials in place, the fourth begins to swing, and she begins to track its movement, trying to bring herself back to that half-awake state when the answers had come to her before. It takes a while, and the face of the alethiometer begins to blur out of focus a bit as she feels sweat beginning to bead at her forehead.

 

She takes a deep breath in, then out; and suddenly, like a flash in her half-dazed state, she _understands_ the symbols the alethiometer is pointing to, as though the answer was spoken clearly in her mind. It snaps her back to consciousness, and she can’t help but laugh, doubling over the alethiometer and snickering at Vex’s expense for a moment.

 

“You are a _terrible_ twin,” she informs Vax between giggles, and his expression promptly changes to naked surprise, as does Kima’s.

 

“It _worked_?”

 

Pike wipes a tear from her eye, and forces herself to stop laughing. “You had a raw chicken chopped up into mince and paste, and smeared it all over her bed,” she says, still grinning slightly. “She had to sleep elsewhere for a week while they got the smell out of the mattress. That’s _awful_.”

 

Vax stills.

 

“I’ve told nobody that,” he says slowly. “That is _creepy_.”

 

That is more than enough confirmation for Pike, and she lets out a breath she didn’t even know she was holding. “It just… makes sense to me,” she says, running a finger along the face of the alethiometer. “Even though I haven’t even _seen_ any of the books. What does that mean?”

 

“We don’t know what it means,” says Xymor, padding forward from Kima’s side to look Pike in the eye. “But we are sure of this much: Every gift is given for a purpose. Perhaps your fate does not end on this journey, either.”

 

~

 

Grog’s watching Percy putter around his balloon when Tiberius Stormwind and the witch-lady, Keyleth, come back to the house with a basket full of leaves. After three to four days or so the sight of the slight woman in a strange green dress with a massive white bird on her shoulder is no longer so foreign. However, there is a daemon he’s never seen before – following sedately behind Tiberius is a beautiful peacock, all shining sapphire plumage and a trailing tail of emerald-and-gold feathers.

 

Phillip, noticing the new daemon, begins to wag his tail excitedly. “Grog,” he whispers, “they’re like us!”

 

Grog looks from his big canine daemon to the fancy bird, and back again. “ _You’re_ not all shiny,” he points out reasonably, and Phillip rolls his eyes.

 

“Not that. Only _male_ peacocks have those tails, Grog. Don’t you see? They’re like _us_.”

 

Men with a male daemon are rare, Grog knows, and he realises why Phillip is so excited. He remembers his clansmen jeering at his daemon, the years of open staring and sneering curling up from the dark place in his memory for a brief second. The Tartars held many superstitious beliefs, and a person whose daemon was their mirror rather than their opposite was strange, abnormal, outcast.

 

But here, _here_ , is a man with a male daemon, a man who is in an important position, and has not been shunned by his people. (Grog remembers, suddenly, that the Consulate is in the middle of nowhere in the north. Perhaps a _little_ shunned, he concedes, but still.)

 

He regards the man in a new light as Tiberius approaches, and notices them staring at the peacock. “Ah,” he says. “Of course, you have not met him before. This is my daemon, Lockheed.”

 

The peacock dips his head regally in greeting.

 

“Good afternoon,” he says, voice a smooth light tenor. “Are you preparing for your departure already? I was under the impression that Sir Vessar would be in recovery for a little while yet.”

 

It’s weird, hearing Vax being called a _Sir_ , but the strange manners fit how uptight and polite Tiberius is, to some degree, so Grog lets it slide. “Soon,” he says instead, looking to Percy for confirmation.

 

“Vex has told me that we must deliver Kima to Vasselheim University as soon as Vax can travel,” Percy adds. “Kima was on a mission of importance before she was intercepted, apparently, though the exact aim of the mission is subject to some secrecy.”

 

Tiberius looks at Keyleth, who shrugs. “Technically, you could leave now if you want,” she says, fiddling with some of the leaves in her basket. “Vax’ildan’s condition is stable enough for flight, but he would be indisposed for most of the day to avoid aggravating the injury too much.”

 

“Hm,” says Percy. He looks down at Vesper, who wags her tail, and back up again. “I will check with Vex about this.”

 

“Will be down a fighter though,” Grog chimes in. “Vax has knives, I saw ‘em on his belt. I should ask him to teach Pike when he’s better, really.”

 

The bird-daemon (Mynxi? Grog hasn’t met him properly, to be honest, and can’t remember what his name is) laughs, and preens his human’s hair briefly. “We can come along as air support,” he says. “We are pretty decent with a bow and arrow.”

 

Grog notices Percy glance to him, then at Keyleth, and then down at Vesper again. “I will ask Vex,” he says again, slowly. “But I feel this is a conversation we must all have together.”

 

~

 

Vex is surprised when Percy asks her, the next morning, about the “artifact”. Pike had told her that he’d seemed understanding of the need for secrets the day before, when he’d left the room. (Strangely, Pike also seems rather tight-lipped about what happened while she’d been asleep. Everybody, Vex muses, has their secrets on this mission.)

 

“It’s not my secret to tell, really,” she tells Percy regretfully. “Now that Kima’s here, it’s really up to her.”

 

“Very well.” Percy runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “Worth a shot, but if it is an important secret then I shall not indulge my curiosity further.”

 

Up close, Vex can see slight bags under his eyes, which speak of exhaustion – strange, since they’ve effectively been relaxing here for almost a week. He looks stressed, almost, and Vex wonders why for a moment.

 

“Percy, dear,” she says. “Have you been getting enough rest?”

 

Percy and Vesper startle simultaneously. “…Not really,” Percy admits. “Truth be told, I get nightmares about letting Ripley go back in Whitestone. Now that she has that machine, I shudder to think of what she might do with it.”

 

Vex bites her lip. “You made the right decision,” she says quietly. “Without you, my brother would’ve been dead.”

 

“I know,” Percy hums. “I do not regret choosing Vax for a moment. It’s just… what that woman might do with her intellect and twisted mind scares me.”

 

“Oh,” Vex says in a tiny voice. “…I’m sorry.”

 

“No need to be sorry,” Vesper speaks up, low voice comforting. “It was our choice to make.”

 

“If you say so,” she says, reluctantly. “Anyway, earlier this morning Keyleth came and asked me if I was alright with flying off today. What’s that about?”

 

“Oh. You said we needed to get to Vasselheim University, right? Keyleth says if she stays with us to monitor Vax’s condition and provide additional air support, we could leave as soon as today if we wanted to – his condition is stable enough for it. She says he’s been healing a little faster than she’d anticipated, even.”

 

Relief hits Vex like a punch in the gut. “He’ll be insufferable, sitting in the basket and not doing anything all day,” she says dryly. “But it might be for the best. Staying too long in one place gives me the hives.”

 

“I shall go and prepare, then,” Percy says, smiling wryly. But he hesitates in the doorway, as though deciding whether to say something else. Trinket snorts a breath of warm air through his nose.

 

“You want to ask something else,” he says, and the way it’s phrased is definitely more of a statement than a question. Percy quirks a brief half-smile, as though sheepish at being caught on his curiosity.

 

“I did not know if to ask, because it seemed like another secret,” he says, after a pause. “But… in the laboratory, in Whitestone, I heard Delilah say that Vax’s daemon had shifted forms. And thus far she has been decidedly non-avian in shape.”

 

“You heard right,” Vex says after a pause, because the cat’s out of the bag on this one and there’s no point pretending that Nera is nothing more than an ordinary raven daemon. “We’ve instructed her to stay in ermine form for now – less distinctive, and also Keyleth doesn’t know she can shift.”

 

Percy nods. “Might have to tell her at some point,” he muses. “Especially if Nera does not want to stay grounded.”

 

It’s a good point – her brother’s daemon has always preferred avian forms so she can fly, and take advantage of the relatively elastic daemon-bond to scout ahead. It’s probably a matter of time before Nera grows impatient and gives herself wings again; in fact, it probably speaks to her worry over her brother’s condition that such a thing had not occurred to her before.

 

“It’s Vax’s prerogative to tell,” she says, “but I will let him know.”

 

Percy hums in assent, and begins to make for the door once more. “Oh, and Vex?” He turns once more, meets her gaze, and his piercing blue eyes crinkle in another one of his half-smiles, this one seemingly a little more sincere and warm. “You did not have to tell me, but you did. Thank you.”

 

A full minute after he and Vesper have left the room, Vex still stands there, firmly telling herself that she’s only imagined the faint warmth on her cheeks.

 

~

 

Vax does not remember the frantic flight to House Draconia that his sister had described to him once he’d woken, groggy and with every muscle in his body sore. Truth be told, he doesn’t remember much of what happened prior to that in the Whitestone laboratory either, but Vex is highly insistent that Nera stick to one form for now.

 

“We don’t want to advertise that she can change forms,” she had said, looking worried.

 

“Everyone saw Nera change, though,” Vax had pointed out reasonably, but Vex shook her head.

 

“Keyleth and the Consul didn’t – they all think she’s settled as an ermine. At least stay in that form until we leave?”

 

The two of them have always been hot-blooded, but of the two Vex has always been the one who’s slightly more cautious, slightly less likely to throw herself into situations first and think later. So Vax follows her lead, and Nera stays in her tiny ermine form, grumpy and flightless.

 

Now, however, they’re loaded up in Percy’s balloon once more on the way to Vasselheim University, which Percy says will likely be a three days’ flight. The last time they’d been up on the balloon, Nera had taken the chance to fly alongside the basket, swooping on the air currents gleefully. This time, however, she’s perched on his shoulder in ermine-form, because it turns out that Keyleth, the pretty witch-lady who’d healed him with herbs and magic, is coming along.

 

“It’s your choice, if you want to tell her,” Vex says, as they sit side by side in the basket, watching the clouds trail past. “Everyone else saw Nera change, so if you don’t mind one more person knowing you _could_ have her change and fly around again.”

 

She says this with a knowing glance, and Vax realises she’s seen Nera impatiently shifting around on his shoulder, shooting longing glances out at the sky. At the same time, though, Nera’s ability to shift has been something that’s been secret between him and Vex for the longest time, and it’s already disconcerting enough that so many more people now know this secret, not all of them benign. Hiding the ability is more habit than choice, at this point, so an ermine Nera stays.

 

He’s practically an invalid at this point, because even though the wounds have stopped their sluggish bleeding and the infection has been drawn out, his chest is still bound tightly in bandages, and the skin is tender and healing. Percy forbids him from helping out at all with the balloon, although pretty much everyone else has been conscripted into assisting in some way so that Percy can get some sleep.

 

So Vax watches, because that’s what he’s best at. He sees the tension between Pike and Kima, one that Vax only catches because he’s looking for it – now that he knows Pike can supposedly read the alethiometer, he wonders if she’ll get to keep the artifact. He sees the considering glances his sister throws out of the corner of her eye at Percy, and wonders if she thinks she’s being discreet, and what Percy might have said or done to her.

 

But most of all, he observes Keyleth, because she’s intriguing. Vax has never seen a witch before, and she’s different from the old crones in black silk that he’d been imagining. She doesn’t usually sit in the balloon unless she’s sleeping – instead, she flies alongside it, perched on a branch wrapped in vines and carved with curious runic designs. It’s freezing up in the clouds, and Vax always wraps himself securely in at least one layer of furs, but Keyleth wears nothing more than her ragged green robes and doesn’t seem to notice, or care, about the cold.

 

“Aren’t you cold?” he asks one night, when it’s just him and Keyleth awake, Grog carefully steering the balloon and Mynxi flown off somewhere like he is wont to do from time to time.

 

Keyleth looks down at her bare limbs bemusedly, and then at Vax huddled in his furs. “I feel the cold, but it does not hurt me,” she says, as though she’d never considered needing to protect herself from the icy cold winds. “Besides, if I was wrapped up, I wouldn’t be able to feel the starlight dance on my skin.”

 

That has _got_ to be the weirdest thing Vax has ever heard, and he sticks his bare hand out of the basket for a moment. He feels nothing but the whipping winds, and he quickly pulls the hand back into his furs to warm it up again as Nera chitters amusedly in his ear.

 

“What does starlight feel like?” he asks, and Keyleth’s eyes light up.

 

“It feels tingly,” she says, “like the song of a beautiful violin humming against your skin. And the moon is like the touch of fine silk. Are humans unable to feel such things?”

 

“No,” Nera says dryly, “humans just feel cold.”

 

“Oh.” Keyleth’s face falls for a moment. “I’ve not met many humans up close,” she says. “Please do tell me if I’m being rude. Percy sometimes says I’m ‘socially awkward’, though I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have much room to point fingers, really.”

 

“Hm,” says Vax, awkwardly. “You’re fine, I think.”

 

It’s nowhere near the best of compliments, but her face lights up anyway. “I’m trying to learn how to be better at, well, social things,” she says in a conspiratorial whisper, tilting precariously closer to the basket. This might have alarmed Vax even a day ago, but Keyleth flies like she’s one with the air, and he’s seen her do a couple of cheeky barrel rolls on her branch at one point, so he’s _almost_ sure that she won’t fall off from this maneuver.

 

“It comes with practice,” he tells her instead.

 

She rolls her eyes goodnaturedly. “I figured,” she replies, tucking a wild strand of hair behind her ear. “But thus far the only humans I’ve had regular contact with are Percy and Tiberius, and well…”

 

“…They aren’t the best of social role models?” Nera pipes up.

 

There’s a pause, and then both Vax and Keyleth burst into stifled giggles. Grog turns back quizzically to stare at them, and Vax waves an arm. “Nothing’s up, big man,” he says, and Grog shrugs and turns back to the controls of the balloon.

 

“You’re interesting,” Keyleth says after a while. “Even if it was under unfortunate circumstances, I’m glad Percy asked me to come.”

 

At that moment, just for a second, Vax is tempted to tell her. _My daemon can shapeshift_ , is on the tip of his tongue, _my daemon is different and I don’t know why_. But then the moment passes, and he swallows the secret back down.

 

“You’re pretty interesting yourself,” he says instead.

 

~

 

Vasselheim University is a collection of beautiful castle-like buildings, all twisting stone spires and wrought-iron gates and carved gargoyles perched on the rooftops, covered in the lightest dusting of snow. With Kima in the lead in her dented, scuffed golden armour, the guards part with a deferential nod, and Pike wonders whether they’ve been hanging out with a really important person all this time.

 

“Not all of you need to come with me,” Kima says, once they have almost reached the entrance of one of the buildings, a polished granite plaque in front of which reads _Ioun College_. “I just need to deliver the artifact to a Scholar who’s resident here.”

 

“We’ll come with,” Vex says immediately, walking to stand by Kima with Vax’s hand grasped in hers firmly. “We started out on this journey to find you, so we’d best see it through.”

 

“I shall go find a tavern,” Percy says next, and Pike sees Grog perk up at the mention of the promise of ale and a warm fire. He turns to look at her, and Pike finds herself hesitating. She knows Kima is going to the College to deliver the alethiometer, and even though she’s only held it in her hands twice, the fact that she can, somehow, understand the mysterious voice of the alethiometer has given her a sense of possessiveness towards it.

 

“I’d like to go to the tavern,” she says slowly, “but…”

 

Kima catches on immediately, and nods. “You should come with me,” she says. “The keeper of the artifact should be informed of, uh, your situation, and it might be best if you were there in person.”

 

Subtlety, Pike muses, is nowhere near Kima’s strong suit, and she notices Grog looking bemused. (Percy also definitely looks like he knows Kima’s hiding something, but somehow Pike gets the sense that he’s got a little more tact where hiding secrets is concerned.)

 

“Grog,” she says, before Grog can prod further, “can you do me a favour? That musician who alerted us in Whitestone, I promised him a drink. Could you help me find him?”

 

Grog immediately perks up, no doubt remembering the small man whose timely observation had tipped them off to the twins’ disappearance in the first place. “Sure thing,” he says. “That man’s a good ‘un, I might buy him a drink myself, too.”

 

He immediately starts walking off in a random direction, Phillip running ahead with his nose to the air to catch a scent. Percy and Vesper sigh almost in tandem, and begin to follow. “I’ll keep an eye on him,” Percy calls over his shoulder as he goes.

 

Keyleth, staring between Percy’s retreating back, the twins standing at the College gate, and the passers-by giving her curious attire a glance, lets out a squeak. “I’ll, uh, follow Percy,” she said hurriedly. “But I’ll send Mynxi back, later, to tell you where we are?”

 

Vex smiles. “Solid plan, Keyleth,” she says warmly. “We should be done in… an hour?”

 

“An hour,” Kima confirms, and Keyleth smiles and nods, before turning and dashing away to catch up with Percy.

 

They stand in the snow for a while, quiet, and then Kima clears her throat. “Right then,” she says, “this way.”

 

She steps up to the wrought iron gate and peers through the bars. “Hey,” she calls out to what Pike assumes is a guard on the other side. “I’ve a delivery for the Cassington Scholar.”

 

A man in leather armour and grey furs comes up to the gate and squints at their group. “Lady Kima,” he says, eventually, after a good minute of staring. “We were expecting you some time ago.”

 

“Great, then you shouldn’t waste any more time in letting us in, right?”

 

“You, yes,” the guard says, slowly, “but we were not informed that you would be arriving with a party.”

 

Kima scowls. “They saved my life,” she says, shortly. “And one of them has business with the Cassington Scholar, as well.”

 

There is a sigh, but the guard reaches for a ring of keys at his belt, and unlocks the gate. Kima, beckoning to the rest of them to follow, marches right up to the oaken front doors of the College and pushes them open, leading them into a large foyer lit softly with ambaric lights and draped with intricate tapestries. The floors are covered in lush carpets, and Pike feels a little bad stepping on them with her boots still covered in melting snow.

 

Kima leads them up a spiral staircase in the foyer and down a row of offices, before rapping smartly at the one at the end. “Come in,” calls a warm female voice.

 

The door is pushed open, and Pike steps in after Kima and the twins. As they spread out in the room, Pike gets a view of a dark mahogany desk, and the room’s occupant seated behind it – a wrinkled old woman draped in golden jewelry and the robes of a Scholar, bright white hair up in a bun. One of her eyes is a bright blue, but the other is milky with cataracts, and at the base of the desk is a large golden lion daemon with a fine silky mane.

 

“Welcome,” says the woman. “I am Osysa, and this is my Kamaljiori. We have been waiting for you for a long while.”

 

~

 

The Scholar gives the three of them behind Kima a curious look, but directs them to plush seats in front of her desk. Vex pulls one up as Kima digs out a black velvet pouch from her pack and places it on the desktop. “A little late,” she says, “but the alethiometer, as promised.”

 

Osysa, the Scholar, reaches for the pouch, and pulls out a thick golden disc larger than her palm, with three dials embedded along its rim. It’s Vex’s first time seeing an alethiometer, and it looks much bigger than what she’d first imagined.

 

“The College thanks you,” Osysa says with a small smile, after inspecting the alethiometer in silence. “We would need to engage your services to deliver it back to Emon College next year, as per the inter-College accord, if you are willing and able.”

 

“Of course,” Kima says. “However, something quite strange arose during our journey here.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Yes.” It’s curious, Vex muses, because Kima looks almost _hesitant_ , and in the short time she’s known this woman Vex has not known her to second-guess what she does. But the next words out of Kima’s mouth floor her. “I’ve found someone else who appears to be able to read the alethiometer.”

 

Osysa raises an eyebrow, and she leans forward, half-intrigued yet half-disbelieving. “Is that so?”

 

Kima nods, and then, to Vex’s surprise, turns to Pike. “I can find no other explanation for it, but it seems that even without any formal education she is able to read the alethiometer.”

 

Vex turns to Vax, about to whisper _what the hell is going on_ , only to notice that he’s watching the proceedings unfold with interest, but not with surprise. “You knew?” she hisses under her breath, nudging him with her elbow.

 

“It happened all at once while you were resting,” he hisses back, not taking his eyes off Osysa. “Then I didn’t know if Kima wanted it spread around or anything.”

 

“I can’t _believe_ you.”

 

She turns back around and realises that Pike has walked up to the front of the desk, and taken the alethiometer in her hands.

 

“I’d like to test this myself,” Osysa is saying. “As you say, Lady Kima, this is most curious indeed. Miss Pike, if you could do me the favour of answering a question with the alethiometer?”

 

“Of course,” Pike says, Seren clambering up onto the desk beside her to have a closer look at the dial. Now that Pike is holding it in her hands, Vex can see that the face of the alethiometer looks rather like a massive pocket-watch, with four hands and many curious symbols etched in a circle.

 

Osysa leans forward to look as well, steepling her fingers in front of her face. “Can you tell me who the Master of this College is, and where they hail from?”

 

Pike nods, and begins to twist the dials of the alethiometer, Seren whispering suggestions at her side. Vex can’t see from her vantage point what symbols Pike has chosen, but she does notice as Pike’s eyes begin to glaze over as she continues to stare at the dial of the alethiometer, as though in a daydream or trance. Suddenly, a good couple of minutes later, she straightens, blinking her eyes clear again, and smiles at Osysa.

 

“Forgive us our ignorance,” she says, sounding a little more deferential than she did before. “We didn’t know you were the Master of this College. And you came from a town to the south of the Frostweald Mountains.”

 

The look on Osysa’s face is enough to tell Vex that this is the right answer, and she’s suddenly breathless with amazement. She’s heard about how rare alethiometrists are, how it takes years and years to even begin to be able to read the symbols of the alethiometer, and here is a young Gyptian girl who can just… understand the truth without any studying at all. This trip, Vex muses, is becoming more and more like a fairy-tale than a real-life adventure.

 

“That is correct,” Osysa says slowly, confirming Vex’s suspicions. “One more, if you would be so kind as to indulge an old Scholar. Where is the Conclave’s main base of operations?”

 

Again, Pike begins to turn the wheels of the alethiometer, and sinks into her trance. Eventually, she comes to with a frown, looking slightly bewildered. “They have a base in the northernmost point of Wildemount, not far from the armoured bears’ colony,” she says, “but the alethiometer says that’s a fake – they use it as a front and a research centre, but the real base of operations is underground.”

 

Vex watches Osysa nod like she expects the answer. “Most curious indeed,” she says. “I have never seen anyone read the alethiometer so quickly, much less without ever having studied the symbols and art of alethiometry. If I could?”

 

She takes the alethiometer from Pike’s hands and begins to twist the dials herself, presumably asking her own question. A good ten to fifteen minutes pass as everyone, Vex included, stares at Osysa as she stares at the alethiometer, eyes flickering as though following something in constant movement. When she finally looks away from the alethiometer up at all of them, she sports a slight frown, as though a new puzzle has presented itself before her and she’s trying to figure out where each piece goes.

 

“From what I can gather, there is some fate that binds the alethiometer to you,” she says to Pike. “Most curious, indeed. I- There is something I must discuss with the Council. You may stay, if you wish, as this concerns you – however, it would be appreciated if your companions wait outside.”

 

Her gaze shifts meaningfully to Vex and Vax, a quirked eyebrow making it clear that this is a firm request and not a suggestion. Kima sighs noisily and stands, her chair scraping across the floor. “We will be right outside,” she says, and walks out of the room.

 

Left with little choice, Vex gets up as well, and follows her brother out of the room.

 

~

 

Osysa summons a servant to fetch the rest of the Council, and there is a sharp knocking on the door a scant ten minutes later. Pike turns around in her seat just in time two see two people enter, a pair of canine daemons at their feet: a dark-skinned woman with wild red hair tied back in a ponytail, and a slim, smaller man with a pair of spectacles perched precariously on his nose. Both their eyes widen minutely when they catch sight of Pike, but the woman recovers faster.

 

“Osysa,” she says, her voice raspy yet smooth, like silk over sand. “We have a guest to the Council, I see.”

 

“Vanessa, Murtin, please do take a seat,” says Osysa, warmly. “This is Miss Pike, the reason behind this sudden meeting that I called. Miss Pike, these are Vanessa and Murtin Cyndrial, the Dean and Bursar of this College.”

 

“Nice to meet you,” Pike squeaks, feeling a little intimidated by the casual confidence of the Dean, Vanessa, as she takes the seat next to Pike. Vanessa inclines her head in a slight nod, and then turns back to Osysa with interest, a silent signal for her to continue.

 

Osysa lifts the alethiometer still in her hands. “During Lady Kima’s journey here from Emon College, she encountered Miss Pike, who seems to be able to read the alethiometer by grace, and without prior study. I have tested her, and confirmed this with the alethiometer.”

 

“Interesting,” says Vanessa. “But you would not call an emergency meeting of the Council just for something interesting, Osysa.”

 

“You know me well,” smiles Osysa. “Indeed, the alethiometer told me something else. It says that a witch-prophecy has been spoken, and that a reader of the alethiometer has a part to play in it. There is darkness approaching on the horizon, and Miss Pike is apparently the one spoken of in the prophecy of its defeat.”

 

Vanessa’s eyebrows are lifted so high they nearly touch her hairline, and it is Murtin who intervenes, this time. “Are you really asking us to put stock in divination and witch-prophecy, Osysa?”

 

“The alethiometer is,” Osysa replies. “And it does not lie.”

 

There is a strained pause, and Pike’s mind races. The idea of a _prophecy_ , let alone one that _she_ is involved in, seems so preposterous that she discreetly pinches herself, in the crook of her elbow, just to make sure this is real.

 

Eventually, Vanessa leans back in her chair with a sigh. “What does the alethiometer say we should do, now? Is Miss Pike to stay in the College for the time being?”

 

Pike starts in her seat. _No_ , she’s about to say, _I won’t leave Grog, the twins, the rest_. But Osysa beats her to it.

 

“She is to travel,” she says. “With the alethiometer in hand, it appears that she will guide the force that strikes down the impending darkness. The alethiometer was _rather_ insistent that she take possession, however temporarily, of it.”

 

Murtin lets out a long sigh. “I am loathe to let the alethiometer out of our gates,” he says. “Such a rare artifact will doubtless paint a target on Miss Pike’s back, as well.”

 

Vanessa turns to eye Pike with a critical eye, and Pike can’t help but straighten up under her gaze. Eventually, Vanessa seems to have found whatever she was looking for, because she nods and turns back to Osysa.

 

“I trust the alethiometer, and I trust you,” she says. “We will extend a three-month loan. At the end of three months, Miss Pike must return the alethiometer to our College, or else negotiate for a longer period should it still be needed. And she may study alethiometry at our College after the loan has expired – a skilled reader of the alethiometer is rare, and even with grace there is much that can be learned with practice, I expect.”

 

Murtin nods, though Pike can see that he is a little reluctant to do so. “A good deal,” he says slowly. “I am not opposed to it. How will we ensure that Miss Pike will return, though?”

 

All eyes in the room to her, and Pike swallows. “I-“ She stops, licks her lips, and wonders what she can do to show her sincerity in this offer. She’s not too sure about this prophecy business, but reading the alethiometer is exhilarating and she wouldn’t mind having it to herself for a period, especially if it means she can continue to stay with the others. “It’s a little far from here, but I live on a boat in Westruun, presently under the care of Wilhand Trickfoot. I can present that as a guarantee against my return, if that would help.”

 

Osysa’s fingers twitch, smoothly turn the dials of the alethiometer, and she nods afte a while. “A fair trade,” she says. “I have no objections.”

 

Vanessa inclines her head and Murtin hums in assent, and Osysa passes the alethiometer across the table to Pike, who takes it in trembling hands.

 

“How will I know what to do next?” asks Pike, feeling out of her depth.

 

The lion daemon, who had previously been silent, pulls himself to his feet to look Pike in the eye. “You may have to seek out the witches themselves – they will likely be willing to share their prophecies with someone who is involved in them,” he rumbles. “If need be, tell them that Osysa Truthseer sent you. There is an enclave of them that stay near Vasselheim, though you may need to contact them through one of their Consulates.

 

Pike thinks of Consul Stormwind, who they’d left not too long ago, and of Keyleth, travelling with them at this very moment. “I know who to ask,” she says, a small smile coming across her face.

 

~

 

It’s a good half-hour later when they find the tavern, having found Mynxi waiting patiently outside the College after Pike comes out from the Council meeting with a dazed look in her eyes. Peeking in, Vax notices that Percy is already halfway through a flute of golden wine, and Grog and Keyleth are…

 

Vax blinks twice, hard, and chokes a little. Grog and Keyleth are sitting across the table from each other with a row of small glasses of a clear liquor, and even as he watches the two of them pick up a glass each and down the entire thing in one mouthful.

 

“Wow,” Pike laughs, pushing past Vax to enter the tavern. “Keyleth’s challenged Grog to a shotgunning contest, I see.”

 

“Should we be worried?” Vax asks wryly, and Pike grins.

 

“Well,” she says, “I don’t know how well witches take alcohol, but Grog’s been known to drink his opponents under the table pretty often.”

 

Vax hears his sister snort behind him and sighs, following after Pike and approaching the rest of their travelling group at the table. He sinks into an open chair next to Keyleth and sighs, eyeing the line of shot-glasses, half of which are already empty.

 

“Do I want to know?” he asks Percy, who huffs a laugh and takes another sip of his wine.

 

“Keyleth has never tried alcohol before, and Grog managed to convince her that the best way to drink it was through a drinking contest,” Vesper answers for him, tone a mix of amusement and disapproval. “We were getting our Tokay from the bar at the time, and by the time we’d returned it was too late to stop it.”

 

Just then, Keyleth and Grog notice his arrival at the table. “Vax’ildan!” says Keyleth, eyes bright but not otherwise showing any clear signs of intoxication. “Grog was introducing me to a most intriguing human custom. Drinking your alcohol is almost as good as feeling the singing of starlight on your skin, you know. You should try some. Percy says it’s called ‘vodka’, and they make it here in the north.”

 

She holds a shot-glass out to him, and even at this distance Vax can smell the strong smell of distilled spirit, and winces.

 

“No thanks,” he says. “I think I’ll have a little of what Percy’s having, instead.”

 

“Good choice,” says Percy, even as Vex and Pike join the table, each with a full pint of ale in hand. “They have a good vintage Tokay, here.”

 

Vax has never tried wine in his life, and couldn’t tell you the differences between a good and a bad one if he tried, but Percy looks exactly like the kind of high-born man who would drink good wine on a regular basis, so Vax figures that it should be pretty good stuff. He nods, and gets up for his own glass.

 

“Since everyone’s getting drinks, we’ll only get serious discussions tomorrow,” Nera murmurs into his ear, amused.

 

“That’s precisely why I’m getting a drink,” he returns, and she snickers, nearly falling off his shoulder.

 

When he gets back, Keyleth and Grog have worked their way through a solid three-quarters of the line of shot-glasses, Keyleth looking a little more glassy-eyed and Grog swaying a little in his seat. Vex has taken the seat between him and Percy, and is sipping her ale and looking massively entertained.

 

“I never thought I’d ever get to meet a witch,” she whispers to him, “but here I am watching a Tartar trying to drink one under the table.”

 

“We still need to ask her about the prophecy,” Vax hisses back. “I don’t want to have to fly back to the Consul if we can just ask the witch we have on hand.”

 

Vex laughs, and lifts her glass as though in a toast. “Tomorrow, brother. One night won’t hurt. We’ve survived a hard fight and completed Allura’s mission for us – we deserve to celebrate.”

 

Vax sighs, and (finally) takes a sip of the wine he’d ordered. It’s rich and honey-scented, with a faint taste of berries. Extremely pleasant to the tongue, and Vax muses that perhaps this may have ruined him for other types of wine – he could probably drink an entire carafe of this if it wouldn’t hurt his finances to do so.

 

There is a cheer from Pike, and Vax looks back up to see Grog and Keyleth clinking their final glasses together and downing them. There’s a moment of bated breath, before Keyleth groans and slumps to the side, falling asleep almost instantly as her head hits the table. Grog grins, looking satisfied at his victory, but then he too sways in place, before bending over, planting his head on the table, and falling asleep.

 

“Guess Grog wins by a hair,” Pike says, looking deeply impressed. “That’s _twelve_ glasses of vodka. I don’t think I could have done half of that.”

 

“They will not find it so impressive tomorrow,” Percy says dryly, finishing the last of his Tokay. “Not when the hangovers kick in.”

 

~

 

True enough, when Percy comes down to the ground floor of the tavern the next morning, it’s to find Grog wincing in the sunlight, a large glass of water next to him.

 

“Morning,” he says cordially, reaching over to snag a sausage off Grog’s plate. Grog doesn’t even notice, just grunts and takes another swig of his water.

 

“The light hurts,” groans Phillip, from where he’s stretched out at Grog’s feet looking rather the worse for wear. “But it was so worth it.”

 

“If you say so,” Vesper replies amusedly, as the rest of their travelling group begins to come downstairs. Pike comes down first, peering all around the floor as though looking for someone, before she comes up to where Percy and Grog are seated.

 

“We’re heading off soon,” she tells Percy. “As soon as we figure out where we need to go, at least.”

 

“And where is it we need to go?”

 

Seren snorts, clambering up onto the table to snag a strip of bacon from Grog’s plate. “To find a clan of witches, somehow.”

 

“Ah. You should probably ask Keyleth, then.”

 

As though summoned by this thought, Percy watches as Keyleth comes down the stairs, looking _distinctly_ not hung over, though clutching a steaming cup in her hands. The twins are following behind her, looking as confused as Percy feels by Keyleth’s awake state.

 

“Good morning,” Keyleth says cheerfully, settling down at the table next to Percy. He leans over and inspects the cup, and smells a strong herbal scent wafting from the tea inside it.

 

“Hangover cure?” he asks wryly, and Keyleth laughs.

 

“I only had a mild headache this morning,” she divulges. “But Mynxi said wintergreen and ginger root would help to take care of it, so I made tea.”

 

Vax and Vex settle down last at the table, each carrying a plate of eggs and a cup of coffee. “We need to go,” she says, in between bites.

 

“Pike mentioned that,” Percy replies. “She said you are looking to find… witches?”

 

Vex shrugs, in that way that shows that she has no idea what he’s talking about. “Ask Pike,” she says, “she had a meeting with the Council of Ioun College before we left.”

 

Pike, perking up from her coffee, says, “I need to find witches, yes. I need to ask them something.”

 

Keyleth frowns, putting down her tea. “That depends on why you seek them,” she says slowly. “The _ashari_ are rather secretive about where we make our homes.”

 

Pike sighs, and looks around the room as though to make sure nobody is listening in. “Osysa Truthseer at Vasselheim University told me to seek out the witches who live near here,” she says in a low voice. “Something about a prophecy that I might be involved in.”

 

Percy straightens up at that. If someone in their group was going to be involved in an _ashari_ prophecy, he’d have assumed it would be Vax, given his daemon’s mercurial nature. But Percy remembers the secretive behaviour between Pike and Kima back at the Consulate, and realises that he might be missing more of the big picture than he’d originally thought.

 

“…The Truthseer was right,” Keyleth says after a long pause. “The Pyrah clan lives near the Sunderpeak Mountains just east of Vasselheim. If the Truthseer told you that Pike is involved in one of our prophecies, I can bring you to them to confirm it.”

 

She nods to Mynxi, who flies off her shoulder and out the window at once – to inform the Pyrah clan of their imminent arrival, perhaps. There’s still some lingering doubt in her expression, however, and Percy realises that she’s struggling with the same issue as him – how someone as unassuming as Pike has become part of a prophecy.

 

“The Pyrah live about three days’ hike from here, or less than a day’s flight,” she says. “I’m not sure if that’s too short a flight to make the setting up of the balloon worth it, though.”

 

“No,” says Percy, because there is one more advantage to balloon flight other than speed. “I can fly the balloon, if you guide me, Keyleth. And perhaps when we are in the relative privacy of high altitudes, some of you could fill the rest of us in on what we are getting ourselves into.”

 

He’s trying to keep the irritation out of his voice, really he is, but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s stumbled into something rather above his paygrade at this point, and the taunt of an unsolved puzzle grates at him. Vesper nips his leg in warning and he sighs, forcing his temper back down.

 

“That’s fair,” says Pike.

 

“ _Pike_.”

 

It’s Vex who speaks up, looking guilty and worried in equal measure. “That’s not something you spread around casually,” she continues, but Pike shakes her head.

  
“You told me once that you had a gut feeling telling me the secret about the artifact would be a good idea,” Pike says to Vex. “And your gut feeling turned out to be right. Now the secret is mine to tell, and _my_ gut feeling says I should tell the rest.”

 

Vex wilts. “Very well,” she says. “Once we’re in the air, then.”

 

~

 

Pike is disappointed to learn from Grog that Scanlan Shorthalt, the musician that had alerted them in Whitestone, was nowhere to be found within the University town. But now, she thinks, after the bombshell Osysa Truthseer dropped on her the day before, she’s got slightly bigger things to worry about.

 

They’re in the balloon and flying east for a good hour before Percy looks away from the controls and straight at her with his piercing gaze. “Secrets,” he says firmly, and Pike feels a little guilty for having kept him and Grog (and Keyleth, probably) in the dark for so long.

 

She takes a deep breath, and looks to Vex for guidance. Vex clears her throat: “The artifact Kima was transporting was an alethiometer,” she says.

 

Pike hears Keyleth choke in surprise for a moment, and sees Percy’s eyes go wide. “An alethiometer is a device that can tell the truthful answer to any question,” she adds, mostly for Grog’s benefit. “And, uh, we found out that I can read it.”

 

“Truly?” asks Keyleth. “That is _amazing_ , Pike.”

 

Pike smiles tremulously. “Truth be told, I don’t know _how_ I can,” she says, a little sheepishly. “But perhaps that means something.”

 

Keyleth and Percy accept this explanation with grace, and the tension in the air dissipates a little. Pike, however, can see Grog still a little stiff, and lays her hand on his kneecap.

 

“Grog,” she says, so softly that nobody else will hear it but him. “I’m sorry I kept secrets from you. Those people in Whitestone kidnapped Kima for the alethiometer, and… well, I was scared, I guess.”

 

Grog is terrifyingly silent for a moment, but then Phillip shuffles forward and rests his chin on Grog’s knee, looking up at her. “It hurts,” he admits, equally softly. “It hurts, but we understand. We’re not mad, Pike.”

 

Pike sighs in relief, and leans into Grog. “Honestly, I don’t know what any of this means,” she says. “But I’m glad I’m going into it with you.”

 

Hours pass, and it’s almost sunset by the time Keyleth directs Percy to start landing the balloon, and Pike peeks out of the edge of the basket to see a large lake, crystal clear, in the middle of a forested valley. It’s a tricky landing, but Percy manages to deftly land the balloon right at the water’s edge, and they all begin to pile out of the basket.

 

The first thing Pike sees is a whirl of dark shapes flying in the air, dark red spots against the darkening amber of the sky. The second is a hail of arrows that come flying straight at them. Pike yelps in surprise and jumps back, only for a huge gust of wind to blow all the arrows off course as Keyleth thrusts her hand forward with a startled yelp.

 

“Stop, sisters!” calls Keyleth, hopping off her flying-branch and stepping forward. Out of the treeline comes a large white shape streaking towards them – Keyleth’s daemon, Pike realises – trailed by a tall male figure.

 

Only, Pike realises as the person comes closer, it’s not a man, but a well-muscled woman in sleeveless, dark crimson robes similar to Keyleth’s, a wicked quiver of sharp arrows slung crosswise across her back, and sleek black hair tied in a wind-swept ponytail. Perched on her shoulder, keen eyes trained on each member of their travelling group in turn, is a large peregrine falcon with razor-sharp claws.

 

“Keyleth of the Zephrah,” says the woman, solemnly. “Your daemon said you had an urgent request of us.”

 

Keyleth bows at the waist. “Greetings, Queen Cerkonos,” she says. “Thank you for meeting us. We have an inquiry about an _ashari_ prophecy that may soon be set into motion.”

 

“Then come, let us talk. My sisters will guard your companions, and they will come to no harm while we discuss.”

 

The woman (Cerkonos? _Queen_ Cerkonos?) turns as if to walk away, but Keyleth blurts “I’d like for them to come as well. The Truthseer has informed us that one among our group is to be involved in a witch-prophecy, so this concerns them as well.

 

Cerkonos frowns in thought, mouth twisted into something not quite a scowl, but nods. “Very well,” she says. “The Pyrah are not the most well-versed in the lore of our clairvoyant seers, but I shall see what we can do. Follow me.”

 

~

 

As the moon rises, the rest of the Pyrah witches come down from their sky patrol and help Cerkonos to build a tall bonfire. Keyleth watches them, feeling a little homesick – if she imagines that the crimson robes of the Pyrah are instead a soft forest green, it almost feels like she’s back with the witches of the Zephrah, settling down for an evening meal after a good hunt.

 

Cerkonos settles next to her, and cocks a curious eyebrow at her companions. “So,” she says. “You mentioned a prophecy.”

 

Keyleth looks over at Pike, who swallows and then nods. “Osysa Truthseer, the alethiometrist of Vasselheim University, told me that I am to be involved in a prophecy,” she says, then hesitates, possibly because she’s not sure whether to divulge her ability to read the alethiometer to a complete stranger.

 

Before Keyleth can say anything, however, Cerkonos leans forward, face illuminated by the flickering light from the bonfire. “I know of the Truthseer,” she says firmly. “If her alethiometer has told her that you are indeed involved in one of the _ashari_ prophecies, then rest assured that all the four clans will keep your secret.”

 

Pike does look a little more relieved at that. “I can read the alethiometer,” she reveals, and Cerkonos leans back with a thoughtful hum.

 

“I know not of prophecies that concern an alethiometer,” she says after a while of thought. “But the Truthseer does not lie, and prophecy and lore is not exactly the specialty of the Pyrah.”

 

The Pyrah, Keyleth knows, specialise in aerial combat, their skill with bow and arrow unparalleled among the four clans of the _ashari_ witches. Defense is their niche, just as healing is the niche of the Zephrah. The historians of the _ashari_ , however, are another clan entirely.

 

“Seek out the witches of the Vesrah, in the south,” Cerkonos says, unconsciously echoing Keyleth’s line of thought. “They are the keepers of our history and our lore. If there is any whisper of a prophecy about a girl who can read the alethiometer, they will know it.”

 

“Where in the south?” Percy asks, pulling a map out of his pack to examine it in the firelight.

 

Keyleth thinks back to her lessons when she was much younger, learning from her mother how to find the various clans of the _ashari_ in times of need. “West of the trading city of Ank’Harel, among the Anamn Islands,” she says slowly, remembering. “A week’s flight from Pyrah.”

 

“Indeed,” agrees Cerkonos. “I can help you contact the Queen there, and inform her to anticipate your arrival. They will be able to guide you once you are closer to their home.”

 

“Thank you very much,” Pike says solemnly.

 

“It is no problem,” Cerkonos replies, eyes crinkling into a half-smile. “When the _ashari_ make a prophecy, there is usually some great darkness on the horizon. If you are indeed part of the prophecy, it is I who should be thanking you for your help in defeating an imminent evil.”

 

Pike looks slightly unnerved by this, and Keyleth muses that perhaps she hadn’t realised the gravity of a witch-prophecy. “It’s alright, Pike,” she says. “We’ll be there with you.”

 

It’s a bold statement of her to make, seeing as she’s only met this motley group less than a week ago, but something about them draws Keyleth in. It might be fate, perhaps, or some other force at work, but her instincts tell her that this group is _important_ , and that she should keep them close.

 

Later, when most of the group has gone to sleep, Keyleth sits by the lakeside, drinking in the soft light of the stars shining down over the valley. She hears a heavy footfall behind her, and turns to see Cerkonos’ bulky form settle down beside her, and sit in silence for a while.

 

“You came at a fortuitous time,” Cerkonos says after a while. “The Conclave seems to be moving against the _ashari_ , though I know not the reason. It is why we attacked on sight when we saw your companions arrive, unknown as they are to us.”

 

Keyleth stiffens. “They had a silver guillotine in the north,” she says, a sense of dread slowly pooling in her stomach. “Is it related to that?”

 

“No, though the news of the guillotine is something rather worrying,” Cerkonos frowns. “There is a woman, one of their leaders, who hunted down the Terrah not but a week ago, captured some of them to demand information. She somehow knew that we guard the places in the sky where the fabric between dimensions grows thin, and she wanted to know how to rip open a portal.”

 

Keyleth’s breath catches in her throat. The duty of the witches to protect the veil between the worlds is a precious duty of theirs, and a secret kept close to the chest of every witch. That someone who is not a witch, let alone someone of the _Conclave_ , knows this secret, is unnerving.

 

“Did she find out how?” she asks worriedly.

 

“No,” says Cerkonos, though her tone is grim. “But five of our sisters were killed under her torture. As far as I understand, they revealed nothing, but the fear is that this woman may be hunting down another clan of _ashari_ to seek the same information. Please, watch your back. I know not if she is headed towards the Vesrah.”

 

“We will,” Mynxi says firmly. “To move against our sisters is to move against us all, and the death of each and every one of them is a great sorrow.”

 

“Indeed.”

 

They sit for a while more in silence, before Cerkonos sighs, and pulls her quiver out. “The woman is named Raishan,” she says, voice bitter. “The Queen of the Terrah tells me she has a distinctive appearance – skin mottled as though from a disease, and eyes as green as poison. If you see her, put this through her heart.”

 

Keyleth looks over, and sees a sharp arrow lying in Cerkonos’ hand, of finer craftsmanship than any of the arrows she has in her own quiver. The tip is impossibly sharp, the end fletched with raven feathers, and there is a faint glow of magic about the arrow as she accepts it from Cerkonos.

 

“It is spelled to be true to its target, and pierce through any armour,” says Cerkonos. “Use it well, and avenge our fallen sisters.”

 

Keyleth thinks of a woman who would torture others to their death, torture _her sisters_ to their death, and bites her lip resolutely. _Raishan_ , she thinks, and commits the name to memory.

 

“I promise,” she says aloud. “I will not forget.”

 

~

 

Vax wakes in the middle of the night, in a small hut one of the Pyrah witches had cleared up for their use. There isn’t much room in the hut, and he can hear Grog snoring from the other bed in the room, while Percy is fast asleep on a mattress on the floor.

 

The moonlight shines in through the window, and Vax looks out to see a solitary shape sitting by the water’s edge. In the dim light, it’s almost hard to tell the identity of the person, except by the shape of the large bird-daemon next to her, and the faint glint of fading firelight off coppery hair.

 

Trying his best not to make any noise, he slips out of the open window, Nera clinging to his collar.

 

True to his suspicions, it’s Keyleth sitting by the lake, staring out at the distant line of mountains with a worried twist to her lips. “Hey,” he says, plopping down next to her.

 

She yelps in surprise, and Vax suddenly finds the business end of a wickedly sharp arrow pointed at his face before Keyleth realises who it is.

 

“Sorry,” she says, quickly lowering the arrow. “You startled me.”

 

“Couldn’t sleep?”

 

She sighs, picking at the hem of her skirt with one hand. “Just thinking,” she says. “I just found out that somebody from the Conclave is hunting down my people to learn our secrets, and that she’s not afraid to kill us to get at the information she wants.”

 

That’s… not what Vax is expecting. “Is she headed our way?”

 

Keyleth shrugs helplessly. “She could be,” she whispers. “Or she could be headed towards the Vesrah, like we are. Or,” and here her voice wavers, “or she could be headed towards my mother, and the rest of the Zephrah. We don’t know anything about her except that she’s already killed some of my sisters, and I’m _terrified_.”

 

Vax is only about two-thirds sure that Keyleth means “sisters” in a less literal sense than actual blood-related siblings, but he imagines someone out to kill Vex, someone whose whereabouts he knows nothing about, and… yeah. He can see why she’s scared.

 

“What do you do when you’re scared of something you can’t prevent against, Vax’ildan?”

 

“Vax,” he says, almost on reflex. “You don’t have to call me by the full name, you know. Everyone else just calls me Vax.”

 

She smiles briefly. “Vax, then.” She falls silent, and Vax realises that she’s waiting for an answer to her previous question.

 

“Take your mind off it,” Nera says as he’s struggling for an answer. “If you can’t prevent it, there’s no point worrying too much.”

 

There’s a wry twist to Keyleth’s answering smile, but Vax notices her shoulders relax a little. “I guess it’s hard to take your mind off something like that, though,” she says. “Especially in the middle of the night.”

 

He’s not sure what drives him to do it – perhaps it’s the sadness in her voice, perhaps it’s the desire to share a little more of himself, or perhaps it’s that Nera’s sick of not being able to fly. He curls a finger into Nera’s ermine-fur, and she chitters, understanding what he’s about to do. “Hey,” he says. “I want to show you something.”

 

He holds out his hand to allow Nera to scurry down from his shoulder, before there’s the familiar _twist_ in his heart, and Nera is no longer a small white ermine but a beautiful black raven once more, feathers glossy and shining in the moonlight.

 

Keyleth lets out a startled breath. “That’s _incredible_ ,” she breathes. “She never settled?”

 

“Not so far,” Nera confirms. “I haven’t found a single form I like enough to spend the rest of my life in, so far.”

 

Keyleth looks intrigued, but Vax notices Mynxi stiffen, can almost see the cogs turning in the daemon’s mind. It takes another moment, but Keyleth notices her daemon’s unease as well.

 

“Mynxi?”

 

“A prophecy,” murmurs the albatross. “Not about an alethiometer, but…”

 

Vax sees Keyleth still as realisation comes to her as well, and he frowns, returning Nera to his shoulder. “What is it?”

 

“A shapeshifting daemon,” Keyleth says slowly. “We don’t have a prophecy that speaks of an alethiometer directly, but we have one that speaks of a man with many daemons.”

 

Surprise hits Vax like a punch in the gut, because if there’s any way to describe him and Nera, a “man with many daemons” certainly fits the bill. “Do you think it’s the same prophecy the Truthseer was referring to?” he asks, and Keyleth frowns.

 

“Without consulting the Vesrah on the full wording of the prophecy, I won’t know,” she says, “but it’s likely, and that’s what worries me.”

 

“Why? What does it mean, that you’ve found two people potentially involved in a prophecy?”

 

Keyleth bites her lip, and nervously fiddles with the arrow in her hands. “It means-” she stops, swallows, and tries again.

 

“It means a darkness is coming, soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for the love on the first chapter! i'm so glad y'all are on this ride with me on this hdm!fusion 'verse.
> 
> i was surprisingly productive through the christmas break, and managed to power-write half of this chapter during the break. i'm estimating this entire story to wrap up in another 2 chapters or so, and then have an author's commentary after, but we'll see where the muse takes me. work may pick up after the new year so i can't promise when the next chapter will be out, but i've already started on it so this story will be updated at some point, by hook or by crook.
> 
> i wanted to have scanlan in this chapter, i swear, but he kept evading me like the cheeky shit he is. next chapter he'll be around, I promise.
> 
> as always, thank you to the wonderful irrationaljasmine for the betareading.
> 
> since all the names can get quite confusing, here's a quick guide to vox machina's daemons:  
> vax'ildan: nera (raven)  
> vex'halia: trinket (brown bear)  
> percival: vesper (white wolf)  
> grog: phillip (samoyed)  
> pike: seren (honey badger)  
> keyleth: mynxi (albatross)  
> tiberius: lockheed (peacock)


	3. it's always darkest / before the dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There, and Back Again: The gang head south to seek out the Vesrah for more information on the witch-prophecy, picking up a new friend on the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New His Dark Materials concepts:
> 
>  **Armoured bears (Panserbjørne)** : A species of sentient, intelligent polar bears who dwell in the north. Unlike humans and witches, they have no daemon - instead, they wear armour made of a metal called "sky-iron", and consider that to be their soul. They are usually skilled smiths, and are difficult to deceive.
> 
>  **Cliff-ghasts** : Scavenger-type flying creatures, with leathery wings and hooked claws, about half the size of a full-grown human.
> 
>  **Yambe-Akka** : The witches' goddess of death.
> 
> Chapter title from [Shake It Out by Florence + the Machine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WbN0nX61rIs).
> 
> Note about tag retractions: I have retracted two tags previously appended to this story: (1) the genderbending of side characters and (2) the minor focus on ships. The plot has taken a life of its own even as I write it, and the reasons for the retractions will soon become apparent in this and the next chapter!

Trying to fly a balloon to an archipelago in the middle of the ocean, and then trying to land it on one of the islands that make up that archipelago, is as impossible as throwing a wine-bottle’s cork from one end of a city to the other and trying to catch it in an empty wineglass, Percy says. So it’s mid-afternoon five days later that they land, instead, in a half-full aërodock the city of Ank’Harel, looking to secure some method of sea travel instead.

 

The air here is warm and humid, and Pike feels beads of sweat beginning to drip slowly down the back of her neck even as they hop out of the balloon’s basket. Vax hops out after her, Nera a small chameleon hanging on to his shoulder, possibly because a cold-blooded reptile might have a better time in this heat than Seren, who has a thick coat of fur and is not looking very pleased about the weather.

 

It doesn’t escape Pike’s attention that Nera’s willing to change forms now, with no explanation given on the part of Vax, just tacit acceptance that everyone’s seen Nera shapeshift before, and so no questions will likely be asked if she shifts again.

 

Ank’Harel is a bustling port city, brimming with life. Street hawkers’ stalls are dotted everywhere throughout the busy paths, the smells of rich roasting meats, sweet perfumes, and fresh herbs mingling in the air. Percy and Vex quickly volunteer to look for a boat to charter, but Pike’s pretty sure they’re doing it so they can get the ocean breeze. At the very least, she’s positive she’s seen Trinket shooting wistful looks at the distant shoreline.

 

Grog, on the other hand, has decided that an ice-cold glass of ale is the best way to cool down – which is how the rest of their group ends up traipsing towards the largest inn in Ank’Harel. Pike can hear the sound of laughter, clinking, and lively music as they approach, and they push open the door-

 

-And she stops short in the doorway, blinking in surprise.

 

Playing a lively jig while dancing on one of the empty tables, being cheered on by half of the inn’s semi-drunken occupants, is a familiar man in purple robes, grinning meerkat-daemon perched on his shoulder.

 

Grog ducks in after her, resting his chin on her head as he peers in. “Pike? What’s taking so long-”

 

She figures he must catch sight of Scanlan Shorthalt when he trails off, but is startled nonetheless when he pushes past her to enter the inn proper. She follows right behind him, noticing a couple of people hanging around the side-tables staring, but then again Grog always gets stares from people well-travelled enough to know what his tattoos mean, wondering what a lone Tartar is doing so far away from the wild north.

 

“Scanlan!” Grog booms, and Pike sees Scanlan startle at the sudden loud sound, and almost fall off the table. He rights himself, and blinks once, twice.

 

“Big guy!” he says, leaping off the table and grasping Grog’s hand, grinning. Now that she can see them side-by-side without the time pressure of her friends in danger, Pike realises that Scanlan is not a very tall man despite his big personality – without the height bonus, the top of his head barely reaches Grog’s shoulder.

 

She peeks around from Grog’s bicep, and waves.

 

“Hello, Scanlan Shorthalt,” she says, with a smile. “I believe we owe you a drink.”

 

~

 

It’s rather fortuitous, Scanlan muses, that he runs into these interesting people _again_ just a day after he and Dranzel have ended their tour of the continent’s best inns, and just when he’d been trying to figure out what to do next. He’d heard whispers, of course, whispers seeking people whose descriptions vaguely match this group he’d seen in Whitestone, but he’d never thought they would come all the way down south to _Ank’Harel_.

 

(The last time he’d seen shady people looking weird at this bunch of people, two of them had apparently disappeared into thin air down a hidden trapdoor in Whitestone. Scanlan doesn’t want to think about what might happen if these new whisperers find their targets.)

 

The big Tartar man from before is there, looking much more approachable now that he’s paid for Scanlan’s pint with his own coin, as is the Gyptian lady (Pike, he remembers her name) with the striking badger-daemon. He remembers there being a pair of twins, but the woman with the bear-daemon is nowhere to be seen. Instead, trailing behind the Tartar and Pike is the male twin with his chameleon daemon perched on his shoulder, and a curiously-barefooted redhead who looks windswept, twigs and flowers still in her hair.

 

(Aes, her eyes sharper than his, whispers: _I thought the male twin had a bird daemon, but maybe we were wrong._ )

 

There’d been a scuffle between the male twin, Pike, and the Tartar as to who got to buy Scanlan a drink first – not necessarily a first for him, but certainly he’s more used to buying drinks for beautiful women and men instead of having them buy drinks for _him_.

 

“I hear your alerting Grog saved my life,” says the male twin now, having lost a thumb-wrestling match to Pike and being declared third-in-line to buy Scanlan a pint. “I’m Vax, by the way. Can’t thank you enough.”

 

The twin ( _Vax_ ) certainly does look worse for wear, slight bags still under his eyes as though he’d spent a long time not sleeping and is only just getting over the insomnia. Still, Scanlan thinks that saving his life is perhaps a little high of an honour to be accepting, given that he’d not done any fighting at all, and he tells Vax this.

 

Grog snorts at this, shakes his head. “If you hadn’t told us that he and Vex were gone, no amount of beatin’ people up would have saved them,” he says seriously.

 

Aes chitters, and does an imitation of a bow from where she’s perched on her hind legs on the table. “Then you are most welcome,” she says, equally solemnly.

 

The moment is broken when the redheaded woman leans forward, eyes wide. “You make beautiful music,” she says, a light in her eyes not unlike a childish wonder. “We heard you when you come in. It sounded almost like star-song.”

 

Scanlan has no idea what to make of that, but tips his head all the same. “Thank you, lady.”

 

“You can call me Keyleth,” she says, still smiling, at the same moment that Vax says: “She means that as a compliment, I think.”

 

The two of them stop and glance at each other, before breaking out into laughter and almost simultaneously taking a large swig of their ale. _Ah,_ Scanlan thinks with a hint of wry humour. _Young love, maybe._

 

“Anyway, what brings you to Ank’Harel?” Aes asks Pike’s daemon, who has his paws up on the table.

 

“We’re heading out to the sea,” he replies quietly. “A couple of our other companions have gone to charter a ship.”

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Scanlan notices one of the drunk men from earlier keeping a gimlet eye on them, now seemingly no longer as inebriated. He doesn’t recognise the man, _per se_ , but he’d come to the inn early enough to hear a couple of people asking if the barkeep had seen their quarry. He shifts his body a little, so that Grog’s bulk is blocking the man’s line of sight, and says in an undertone: “I assume Vax’s sister with the bear daemon is currently looking for a ship on the pier. Do not bring her into town. There have been people asking around various cities for a Tartar man and a woman whose soul is in the shape of a bear.”

 

The change in the mood around the table is perceptible almost instantly. Pike stiffens like a deer caught in the swing of a lantern-light at night, while Vax draws him up straighter in his seat, a frown creasing his forehead. Grog looks around the inn in a blatant and unsubtle motion, while Keyleth-

 

Keyleth, perhaps, has the most interesting reaction. She looks worried, as the rest do, but she says nothing, plucking a leaf from her hair and studying it for a moment before crushing it in her fist and blowing a breath out onto the closed fingers. She waits a moment, two, and then opens them up again, letting the tattered pieces of leaf be swept away on an errant breeze.

 

“We’ll be sure to leave soon, then,” she says, biting her lip. “I’ve let Percy know.”

 

How on _earth_ she’s managed to do that, Scanlan really wants to know. But before he can say anything, Vax says in a deceptively casual voice, as though he’s discussing the weather: “Someone’s approaching with their eyes on us. Pike, get up and start walking out of the inn, but _act natural_. Grog, start walking towards the bar. We’ll see who they’re after.”

 

Pike and Grog rise from the table in a move that appears almost choreographed, and start walking in opposite directions. It’s probably for the best that none of them are street performers, because they’re entirely unsubtle, looking like they’re trying too hard to appear nonchalant.

 

It’s all for naught, because two other men who had been sitting half-hidden in shadow in a table by the corner have risen from their seats, one drifting out to the entrance of the inn and the other approaching them, eyes on Grog.

 

The first man is close enough now for Scanlan to hear him, barely an arm’s length away from Grog at this point. He’s got buzz-cut black hair and a single gold loop earring on one ear, fighter’s scars all across his face and neck and fists, and a strange brooch on his cloak in the shape of a serpent-creature biting its own tail.

 

“Only the guilty run,” he says, eyes never leaving Grog’s face. “The Conclave just has some questions to ask of you-”

 

His oily voice is cut off by Grog’s meaty fist swinging into his jawbone in a nasty uppercut, and everyone in the inn (probably) hears the _crack_ of bone meeting bone as he’s pushed back from the impact.

 

“No Conclave dipshits,” Grog says, just as his daemon snarls: “ _Run_.”

 

If you asked Scanlan later, the subsequent events all blur together in his head, the only thing clear an underlying thread of mounting panic and confusion. He remembers Vax jumping back from the table, beginning to run out of the inn with Keyleth’s arm in a vice grip. He remembers Grog pulling him out of his seat and after Vax, in a re-enactment of their mad chase out of Whitestone. He remembers Pike sliding between the legs of the man blocking the doorway, and Vax knocking out the man right after with the butt of a dagger he’s pulled out from somewhere.

 

 _Not this shite again_ , he thinks, and Aes snickers in his ear as she clings to his collar.

 

“Well,” she says dryly, “we _were_ looking for something to do.”

 

~

 

A light balmy breeze blows inland as Vex and Percy walk towards the city pier, and Vex laughs in delight as the cool winds blow tendrils of hair across her face. “Such an improvement from the rest of the city,” she says, satisfied, and looks to her side to see Percy walking along with his hands in his pockets, gazing aimlessly out at the distant horizon.

 

“Idyllic,” he says quietly. “I wonder how long it will last.”

 

“Don’t _jinx_ it, then,” sniffs Vex. “C’mon, we’ve got a boat to rent.”

 

She expects it to be perhaps as difficult as when she and Vax were first looking for passage by sea all those days ago in Emon College, searching in a tavern-full of sailors and not finding anyone willing. Here, however, the pier is large and active, and boats are coming and leaving all the time.

 

“We should rent a boat without the crew,” Vex muses as she studies the various ones that have been parked along the coastline. “The less who know where we’re going, the better, and in any case Pike and Grog know how to operate a boat.”

 

“That will not be easy,” Percy frowns. “Usually, the owner of the boat is the captain, as well.”

 

True to Percy’s word, the first few boats they inquire at seem wary of renting out their boats without a supervising crew, and quickly wave the two of them away. Even the ones who seem a little leery of Trinket’s hulking form, or impressed by Percy’s fine clothing, don’t seem to be persuaded enough to be willing to temporarily hand over possession of their boat.

 

About five boats down, Vex spots a sleek boat parked further down the pier, painted in black paint with the design of a swan in flight carved into its prow. It’s not a big boat, but it’s certainly enough to hold everyone in their group, and a massive bear daemon, without sinking. She points it out to Percy, and is prepared to start another round of fruitless negotiations, but he stalls her with a hand on her arm.

 

“I have an idea,” he says, and Vesper makes the snorting noise that indicates she’s amused by something Percy’s thinking but not saying aloud. “Please play along. I think I know how to get us our boat.”

 

“Well,” Vex grins, “I’m on board for any scheme.”

 

He quirks a half-smile back at her, and offers his arm with a graceful half-bow. Vex stares for a moment, before Trinket nudges her ( _hard_ , dammit) in the back, sending her stumbling forward and clutching at the outstretched arm for balance. “…Well,” she says, adjusting her grip to hold on to his arm a little more comfortably. “Let’s go, then.”

 

There is a man seated on the edge of the pier next to the black boat, whittling away on a stick as they approach. He looks up at them and grunts, fingers not stopping in the carving-work even as his eyebrows in a silent inquiry.

 

“Good day,” says Percy. “We are looking to charter a boat to head out to sea for up to a week, if you please.”

 

“Fifty gold a day for my crew and I,” replies the boatman, teasing a long curl of wood shaving down the length of the stick.

 

“Actually, we were looking to just hire the boat without a crew. You see, I am quite the accomplished boatman, and was hoping to take my, ah, my wife on a most interesting honeymoon. Just by ourselves, you understand.”

 

The man looks from Percy to Vex, and she flutters her eyelashes at him, desperately racking her brain to try and remember what simpering, disgustingly-in-love young wives acted like around their rich husbands. (She’s certainly seen her fair share of them in her younger days around the elegant gardens of Syngorn College, it shouldn’t be _that_ hard.)

 

“Oh yes,” she says in as breathy a voice as she can manage, running her hand down Percy’s arm to interlace her fingers with his, and she feels Percy start in surprise next to her at the touch. She hopes the guy focuses on the vapid image she’s projecting, and doesn’t notice the leather armour she’s wearing nor the crossbow strapped to her back. “My _darling_ husband and I would love to have some privacy out on the sea, so he can… show me the ropes, if you will.”

 

She hears Trinket badly stifle a snort of laughter from behind her. _Vax must never find out_ , she thinks, hiding her own grimace at her over-the-top acting. _I would die a thousand deaths from the shame._

The man narrows his eyes for a moment in consideration, but then laughs and reaches up to shake Percy’s free hand. “You rascal,” he says to Percy. “It has been a while since my sweetheart and I took to the waves, but I remember. You have the same look in your eye. Twenty-five gold a day for the boat.”

 

Vex almost opens her mouth to bargain the price lower, but Percy squeezes hard on her fingers, still intertwined with his. “That is a fine price, indeed,” he replies smoothly. “Please take two days’ advance payment as my gratitude.”

 

Before Vex can protest, Percy’s reached into the money-pouch by his waist and pulled out a large handful of clinking coins, dropping them into the boatman’s outstretched hand. He nods, his hummingbird-daemon buzzing in satisfaction, and stands up.

 

“Boat’s all yours, young man,” he says, beginning to walk off, a laugh in his voice. “Do return it in neat condition, and launder all soiled cloths, if you please.”

 

They watch him disappear down the pier and strike up a conversation with another lounging sailor before Vex sags in relief, wiping the strained smile from her face. She moves to pull her hands from Percy’s, but his fingers tighten _ever_ so slightly on hers, just for a second, before he lets her go.

 

(She thinks she’s imagining the pink tinge on his high cheekbones – the sun _is_ pretty strong today, after all.)

 

Before they can so much as begin to board the boat, a breeze picks up around them, and a tattered brown leaf smacks into Percy’s face. The wind dies as quickly as it comes, and Vex frowns.

 

“That was strange,” she says, as Percy pulls the leaf off his face and squints at it. Vex peers over, and notices that what she had thought were rot-eaten holes in a decomposing leaf are actually delicately-cut incisions, forming words on the leaf like cursive writing on a sheet of parchment.

 

“Witch-magic,” says Percy idly as he squints at the tiny writing on the leaf. “Keyleth says to stay out of town, there are people looking around for a woman with a bear daemon who’s been seen in the company of a Tartar.”

 

Trinket growls. “Good to know, I guess,” Vex says, running a placating hand down his back. “Was it people from the Conclave?”

 

“Beats me.”

 

Percy sighs deeply, before crumping the leaf in his hand and dropping it to the ground. “Come,” he says. “We should get in the boat and prepare for departure, though you may wish to hide yourself and Trinket belowdecks for the time being.”

 

It’s a good idea, but it’s also a _bad_ idea, because the lower deck of most ships can only be accessed by a rickety ladder of sorts, and there is absolutely no way a brown bear could maneuver his way down one of those, let alone have it bear his weight.

 

“I will lie flat on the deck,” Trinket cuts in, before she can respond. “I am sure there is a tarpaulin or spare sail that Vex can throw over me to hide me from immediate view.”

 

As Vex is helping Trinket up the boat and draping a large roll of canvas cloth over him, arranging the folds of fabric to fall in as natural a way as she can manage, there is a shout in the distance. She and Percy turn at the same time to see five figures running towards them – from here, she can identify them only because Grog towers over the rest, and Keyleth is flying on her branch, red hair streaming behind her like a banner.

 

“Conclave,” Keyleth gasps as she and Mynxi land on the deck of the boat at the same time. “Saw us. In the tavern. Chasing. Got to go.”

 

As she says this, Grog vaults up into the boat, causing it to rock wildly for a second or two. On his back, two arms clasped tightly around his neck, is Pike, who looks disoriented but not winded.

 

“Open the sails,” Percy snaps, beckoning Pike over to the prow of the ship where a massive steering-wheel sits. “Keyleth, some help would be great.”

 

Vex glances at Keyleth, who raises her hands and begins to chant as a breeze begins to pick up. She glances back at the pier, where her brother is almost at the boat, dragging behind him an exhausted-looking man in gaudy purple robes who Vex vaguely realises as the musician from the night before Whitestone. And behind _them_ is a group of three men with pistols out.

 

“Halt!” calls the one in the centre, with black hair cropped short and a face full of scars. “By the authority vested in me as a Councillor of the Conclave-”

 

“Suck it,” Grog yells back over his shoulder, reaching down to pull the musician up onto the boat, Vax taking a running leap and skidding down the deck just as the sails billow out and strain against Keyleth’s magically-enhanced wind, and the boat takes off at a quick clip away from shore.

 

~

 

It’s not until they’re a good couple hours’ sail out, and there’s no sign of a pursuit by boat, that Percy relaxes and turns his attention away from where he’s been keeping watch at the back of the boat.

 

There’s a new person sitting on the deck, looking slightly winded and very lost. He’s in bright purple robes and has a wooden flute strapped to the outside of his pack, and a meerkat-daemon on his shoulder peering around with bright eyes.

 

“Grog,” Percy says dryly, an eye on the man he’s _pretty_ sure is the same one that’d warned them in Whitestone. “Did we pick up another stray?”

  
“Scanlan’s a good man,” Grog returns, not looking up from where he’s giving his sword a careful polish with a grimy cloth he’d dug out from the bottom of his pack.

 

“…Yes,” Percy says slowly, “but we’re headed to a rather, uh, sensitive location at the moment, right?”

 

“We can’t be leavin’ him in the middle of the ocean,” Grog points out reasonably. “It was all a rush to get out, we just grabbed everyone an’ ran, really.”

 

Percy looks from Grog to the man, Scanlan, and sighs. “Is this one of those gut feeling things again, then?”

 

“Yes,” Grog says, at the same time that Pike leans back from the steering wheel to say, “Grog, if you take over the controls for a little, I could ask and check.”

 

The _alethiometer_. Percy’d almost forgotten, to be honest, that a machine that could tell the truth to any question could certainly tell them whether it would be wise to add one to their number. It’s still kind of surreal, putting that much trust in an inanimate object, but Grog’s right in that they can’t really do much now that Scanlan is actually on the boat with them, and has been seen fleeing the city in their company. Asking a magic artifact won’t do any added harm. (Probably.)

 

“I’ll go with Pike,” he says instead, getting to his feet.

 

“I have no idea what you’re about to do,” Scanlan says cheerily, and waves them off. “But have fun, and use protection, I guess?”

 

Percy chokes, and hears Pike and (strangely) Vex do the same.

 

“Second thoughts?” he asks Pike wryly, an eyebrow raised, and she laughs at him, waves him over as she descends the stairs into the lower deck.

 

Once they’re safely sequestered into the galley of the boat, Pike pulls the alethiometer from where it hangs in a little pouch around her neck, and Percy makes a mental note to figure out which of their little party can sew, and have them sew an inner pocket to Pike’s coat for the artifact.

 

“I’ll ask if we should have brought him along?” Pike asks, gazing down at the symbols.

 

“Ask if he should know the full truth of what we’re doing,” Vesper suggests. “Even if we know he’s supposed to be with us that may not tell us if we can tell him about the alethiometer, and the prophecy.”

 

“Good call,” Pike murmurs absently, seemingly already contemplating the alethiometer.

 

It’s curious – Percy hasn’t seen Pike read the alethiometer before. Seren props his face up onto the table and murmurs suggestions, pointing at the dial with one sharp claw. Eventually, she turns the dials to point at three symbols – a thunderbolt, an apple, and the sun – and stares blankly at it for a good while. He sees her eyes glaze over as she continues to stare at the alethiometer, and he estimates that perhaps a good ten minutes pass before Pike jerks out of her trance with her gasp.

 

“He’s good,” she says, slightly breathless. “The alethiometer said that he needs to know what we know, that he’s… important in this, somehow.”

 

Percy frowns. “Important, like he’s involved in the prophecy?”

 

“It was vague on that,” she says, shrugging. “It speaks in riddles, sometimes. But it was clear that he’s important to our journey.”

 

“Important enough to tell him all these secrets we've been keeping because we don’t want our pursuers to know?”

 

Pike obligingly turns the dials of the alethiometer and goes into a trance again, only to reawaken a while later with a snort. “It seems offended that you even asked that question,” she says, flashing a wry grin. “If we trust its truth, we can trust Scanlan.”

 

Well, then. Percy’s got all sorts of logical arguments lined up for why they can’t trust a stranger, but they’ve come all this way on the word of a single artifact that can tell the truth, and they haven’t died yet. It’s probably leading them in a right direction, even if it’s not necessarily the safest or the best one.

 

“I reserve the right to say ‘I told you so’ if all this goes to shit,” he says lightly, and Pike laughs, pats his arm in a vague manner that he assumes is meant to be comforting.

 

“Okay, Percy.”

 

“Very well,” he says instead, getting to his feet. “Perhaps, it is story time for this Scanlan.”

 

~

 

The Keyleth lady is _definitely_ some sort of shaman, Scanlan thinks. They’ve been sailing hard for perhaps half a day or so, and there are winds filling out the sails that are certainly not normal sea breezes. Instead, she’s been sitting at the front of the ship, usually with her hands outstretched, and beads of sweat at her brow as she frowns in concentration.

 

Going _hey, wow, that’s magic_ is certainly a bizarre explanation, but it’s been an extremely bizarre day for Scanlan, anyway. Sometimes, the simplest answer is the right answer, and he definitely can’t explain their unnatural speed over the waves as anything else _but_ magic.

 

“How’re you holding up?” he hears Pike’s voice from him, and he starts in surprise.

 

(Speaking of bizarre-)

 

“As well as I can be, under the circumstances,” he says a little wryly, and she laughs, sitting down on the deck beside him. Grog is currently steering the ship, and she seems relatively at ease compared to their mad dash away from the docks of Ank’Harel.

 

“Sorry you got dragged into this with us,” another voice chimes in, and he turns to see Vax flopping down on his other side, Percy standing awkwardly stiff behind him. “But, well, one good deed begets another and all that. The Conclave know your face now, so better that you’re on the move with us rather than out there for them to find.”

 

Aes snorts. “And where exactly are we going?” she asks archly.

 

“That, ah-”

 

“We’re going to find a clan of witches,” Pike says firmly. “We're looking for information on a prophecy, and we think they might be able to help.”

 

Scanlan almost chokes on his own spit in surprise. Suddenly, he muses, magic wind doesn’t seem like so weird anymore, not when magic divination stuff is in the picture.

 

“Are you taking the piss? Because I genuinely can’t tell at this point,” Scanlan says instead, because humour is his best coping mechanism for things he doesn’t understand. “Are you taking me off to the middle of the sea to kill me and secure my silence?”

 

Aes smacks the side of his face with her tiny paw for that last cheeky comment, but he sees Pike roll her eyes.

 

“It sounds strange, but it’s the truth,” she says, earnestly. “We don’t know why the Conclave’s after us, but it might have something to do with this prophecy, too. And it’s all very secret because the witches don’t like people knowing where they are, nor about their prophecies, usually, so you can’t say anything to anyone.”

 

“Then why are you telling _me_ in the first place?” asks Scanlan, by now feeling highly confused.

 

Pike smiles. “Because,” she says, with the air of a circus-magician about to pull back the cloth and reveal his trick, “I have a truth-teller, and it told me that you’re involved in this somehow, and that you should be trusted.”

 

Truth-tellers. Scanlan’s day is just getting weirder and weirder, and he surreptitiously pinches himself hard in the crook of his elbow just to make sure he’s not asleep and dreaming. Pike sees his frown and must have mistaken it for _something_ , because she says: “Ask me anything I shouldn’t know. I can show you it’s the real thing.”

 

“No thanks,” he says hurriedly. He’s got no desire to share his secrets, even if it’s to prove the existence of something as fairytale as a truth-teller. “I believe you.”

 

~

 

They reach the Anamn Islands within a day and a half of magically-aided sailing, just about. The rest have spent the journey helping Pike with the boat, and filling Scanlan in on the details of their journey. But Keyleth remembers the jolt of fear when the Conclave had begun chasing them, remembers the relatively high rank of the man front-and-centre with the black hair and the brooch in the shape of an ouroboros. They’re being hunted, and by people who don’t look like they’re going to be very willing to stop and talk it out, so she furrows her brow hard and wills the wind with every spark of magical energy inside of her. The wind is her friend and it sings through her fingers, filling out the sails and pushing them onward at a speed no ordinary boat could hope to match, but it means that as they pull up onto the shores of one of the islands of the archipelago Keyleth feels exhausted, every drop of magic wrung out of her like a wet rag.

 

It is quiet on the beach where they dock, but Keyleth is not fooled – there will likely be defences or scouts, like how the witches of the Pyrah had defended their home from the air. So she rubs her eyes and steps forward, first off the boat, and Mynxi glides over to hand on her outstretched arm, straightening himself to his full height.

 

“Sisters,” she calls, voice loud in the silence of the evening. “I am Keyleth of the Zephrah, and I have matters of great importance to discuss.”

 

She hears the crunching of footsteps as everyone else hops off the boat onto the fine sand of the beach, but there is no movement in front of her.

 

“Cerkonos said they would send word,” Mynxi murmurs. “They should be expecting us.”

 

Almost as though on cue, at that moment a volley of arrows flies towards them out of the trees at the edge of the beach, a half-arc of deadly sharpness. Left without sufficient magic to deflect all the bullets after the hard sail, Keyleth yelps and dodges to the side, but one or two still catch her in the side. There is muffled swearing behind her, and she knows her companions have suffered a similar fate.

 

“Cerkonos of Pyrah should have sent a message ahead,” she calls, surreptitiously pulling out her bow and nocking an arrow.

 

There is no reply, but also no second barrage of arrows – an improvement, possibly. It’s another tense two minutes of silence, hearing nothing but the quiet lapping of the waves on the shore, before there is a rustle and a blue-robed figure appears, floating down on her branch of cloud-pine.

 

“Prove your identity, Keyleth of the Zephrah,” she calls, and Keyleth sighs. _How would an imposter have known about Cerkonos_ , she almost snaps back, but Mynxi reaches up and plucks one of the red flowers out of her hair, tossing it to the wind. The flower’s petals separate in mid-air, swirling in the wind currents but unerringly finding their way to the palm of the other witch. The sending-flowers are a specialty of Zephrah, a happy accident in herbal breeding experiments, and these ones carry the faintest traces of her magical residue in the petals.

 

“…Very well,” says the other witch, after studying the petals that have landed in her hand for a bit. “Queen Uvenda is expecting you. Please, follow me.”

 

The witch begins to walk, and they all follow her through the brush, and to the banks of a massive mirror-clear lake in the centre of the island. There, Keyleth sees blue-robed witches coming down from trees, peering curiously at the newcomers.

 

And there, waiting for them, is the oldest witch Keyleth has ever seen. Dressed in the same blue robes as the other Vesrah witches, but with a net of gold thread woven with pearls set in her hair and both eyes a filmy light blue, she looks to be possibly two, or even three thousand years old.

 

“I have seen you coming,” whispers this witch in a voice as thin and brittle as parchment. “Welcome. I am Uvenda, Heart of the Tides.”

 

This, Keyleth realises, must be the Queen, and she bows automatically.

 

“We have come to you to ask about a prophecy,” she starts, but the Queen waves a hand, turning to walk towards a large hut built on the lakeside.

 

“Yes, yes,” she says, “Cerkonos did tell me, after all. Come, this way.”

 

She leads them into the hut, which is furnished with soft rugs and many, many seashells. It’s a surprisingly human-looking abode for a witch, but Keyleth muses that maybe at a couple thousand years of age, when Yambe-Akka could come to bring you past the veil at any time, one’s joints are less suited to flight than to curling up in a comfortable chair on land.

 

“So,” Uvenda says once they have settled in the living-area and introductions have been given. “Cerkonos tells me you seek one of my prophecies, about a girl who reads the truth?”

 

Pike starts beside Keyleth at this mention of her. “Yes,” she says, a little shyly. “Osysa Truthseer from Vasselheim University said that I was involved in a witch-prophecy, because of my ability to read the alethiometer.”

 

“Hm,” hums Uvenda, brows furrowing in thought. “I have no recollection of a prophecy centered on a reader of truth, but you do have the touch of fate in your aura… Most curious, indeed.”

 

“If I may,” Keyleth interrupts slowly, thinking to the revelation she’d been given that night on the shores of the Pyrah’s lake. “We have reason to believe that she may be involved with the prophecy about the man with many daemons.”

 

It takes Uvenda a moment, but her expression clears. “Perhaps,” she allows. “‘Compass true’, hm? But no man with many daemons has shown himself, as far as we are aware.”

 

“Actually,” Vax pipes up, and Keyleth can see Vex elbow her brother out of the corner of her eye. He grunts, and Uvenda turns to him.

 

“Curious,” she says, reaching out towards Vax. Her eyes glaze over briefly, as though looking past him, or perhaps right through him, before they clear again. “You too, you have a curious touch of fate in your aura, boy. And a scarring, as well.”

 

“He was injured by a silver guillotine,” Keyleth says, and Uvenda winces.

 

“That would do it, yes. Dreadful business.”

 

“More importantly,” says Vax, as though he hadn’t been interrupted. “Keyleth brought up that prophecy because I showed her this.”

 

He holds out his hand, and Nera, still in chameleon form, crawls out onto his palm. There’s a moment as everyone stares at her, but then suddenly there isn’t a chameleon on his palm anymore, but a raven.

 

Uvenda’s eyes widen. “A man with a shapechanging daemon,” she whispers. “Child, if the prophecy is indeed true, you _must_ understand. This means that darkness is on the horizon as we speak. And with the attack on Terrah just earlier this month…”

 

She trails off, and Percy clears his throat.

 

“I do hate to interrupt, Your Majesty, but what exactly is this prophecy?”

 

Uvenda’s staring off in the distance contemplatively, and no twitch on her face betrays that she’d heard Percy’s question, until she begins to chant softly in a sing-song fashion:

 

“ _A whisper brought from shadow,_

_It hungers with no end;_

_A man with many daemons_

_Will rise up and defend._

_From a jewel in the sky,_

_On wings of tempest new;_

_Amber-glass and carver by his side_

_And led by compass true._

_The dying sun, it comes alive_

_Building cities though it burns;_

_The two, from dust they came before_

_And the dust, they shall return.”_

 

“This is the prophecy that I foresaw, many moons ago,” says Uvenda, gaze shifting to look back at them. “It coincides uncomfortably with the recent interest the Conclave has been showing in that which the _ashari_ guard.”

 

(One line, just one line, catches Keyleth’s attention like delicate lace snagging on a thorny bush. _Wings of tempest new_ , she thinks, and frowns, trying to figure out why that one line feels so desolate.)

 

She pauses, shifts, and sighs. “Understand this: Under normal circumstances, I would be telling you none of this, except young Keyleth. But there are too many coincidences before me, and I believe that it is more likely than not that the prophecy has indeed come to bear fruit at last. And it would not do to leave the fated unaware of the darkness that they will inevitably have to face.”

 

Pike straightens up, a look of rapt attention on her face, and Keyleth hides a smile.

 

“Listen, young ones. At the beginning of time, there was a Whisper. And it grew and strength in power, for people did not trust each other, and only spoke to each other in whispers. But as people became civilisation, and they found their daemons, they no longer needed to whisper to each other, not when they held their own soul in their hands, not when they could know the true heart of another just by looking. So they turned away from the Whisper, and it grew desperate, sought the attention of people like a drowning man seeks water. It despised the daemons, then, the beings that had taken away the people from itself, and so it sought to destroy the daemons.”

 

“Alas, if one destroys the daemon, they destroy what makes a person good, and kind, and capable of conscious thought. And so it was that many people were robbed of their daemons, most of them dying away from the shock. It was a black time. Finally, however, there came a race of people who managed to hide their daemons far from the Whisper’s reach. They were the first of the _ashari_ , and they fought with the song of stars on their tongues and the silk of moonlight on their skin, and they banished the Whisper to another realm, known as the Shadowfell. The battle had opened four portals to the Shadowfell, and the first _ashari_ drew a veil over them to seal away the Whisper for good. It is thus till this day that the four clans of the _ashari_ guard the veils over the openings to the Shadowfell: Pyrah to the north, Vesrah to the south, Terrah to the west, and Zephrah to the east. And the defeat of the Whisper was hidden from all but _ashari_ history, lest someone seek to tear away the veil and free the Whisper once more.”

 

“…And you believe that the Conclave want to, what, free this Whisper?” Percy asks, leaning forward with a slight tone of skepticism in his voice.

 

Uvenda shrugs. “I do not assume, only tell you what I have observed,” she says.  
“A woman, part of the Conclave, came to the Terrah knowing that they guard the veil, knowledge she should not have. She has tortured and killed several of our sisters in her desperation to get further information on the veil. Ordinarily, I would tell you that there is no way to rip open the veil, even if one defeated all the _ashari_ who guard it. But… well, ordinarily, I would also say that no human would know of our duty to guard the veil, or of the veil’s existence, yet here we are.”

 

“Wait,” says Vax slowly, frowning. “The last line of that prophecy, ‘dust they shall return’… Anna Ripley said something similar back in Whitestone. She said, ‘for dust thou art, and to dust thou shalt return’. And she seemed to speak of Dust as…”

 

He trails off, as though trying to recall, and Nera chimes in: “She said it was the energy of the universe.”

 

Uvenda hums. “That is not wrong,” she says. “As the _ashari_ understand it, Dust is the energy of the human consciousness. It is in all of us, from the day we are born to the day we die.”

 

“The Conclave wants to do something with the Dust,” Vax says. “Their researchers were very insistent on taking measurements of the amount of Dust I had.”

 

“Hm. I think you need not worry,” replies Uvenda. “You who are touched by fate will likely have a higher amount of Dust than normal people, but I know of no way for humans to see Dust, let alone manipulate it in any form. No, whatever blackness this Conclave is planning, I do not believe the Dust of the universe will be of any help to them.”

 

~

 

After Uvenda’s story, and after a dinner with the Vesrah witches, they convene outside a hut that’s been prepared for their rest for the night. “So,” Vax says, “big bad evil might be on the horizon, and we might need to stop it. What’s our next step?”

 

“Are we really doin’ this?” Grog asks dryly. “Goin’ with some prophecy an old lady said?”

 

“It feels right,” Pike says, biting her lip. “I can’t explain, but there’s a feeling in my gut that says we should trust the prophecy.”

 

“I wonder if the rest of us are involved too, though,” Vex says, and Vax is inclined to agree – it had been a strange gut feeling that brought them together, and so far it’s led to them supposedly finding two key players in a witch-prophecy.

 

“‘Jewel in the sky’, she said,” he says. “That could be, perhaps, Percy’s balloon. I don’t know about the rest though, some glass and some knife and a storm…”

 

“The ‘darkness’ is probably the Conclave,” Keyleth adds, thoughtful. “Perhaps we should hunt them down, and the rest of the prophecy will take care itself along the way.”

 

“Yes,” says Percy, “that would be a great idea if we actually knew where the Conclave was.”

 

Vax frowns, remembers a couple of days ago in a dusty College office. “We do,” he says slowly. “Pike found it with the alethiometer, back as part of her test from Osysa Truthseer. It’s in the north, somewhere near where the armoured bears live.”

 

They all pause a moment, remembering the harsh cold of the north, and Percy is the first to groan. “We _just_ came to warmer climates,” he says. “And we would need to go there by balloon, which means returning to Ank’Harel. And that is assuming I know where the armoured bears live, which I do not. Problems upon problems upon problems, if you will.”

 

There’s a collective, disheartened pause, which is broken by the sound of a throat clearing. Vax turns to see Scanlan, still sitting slightly apart from the group, still looking a little like he’s not sure he belongs in this… whatever this is. He has his hand raised, tentative.

 

“Um,” he says, as all eyes swivel onto him. “I can’t help with the balloon, whatever that is. And I can’t help with navigating to where the armoured bears live. But I know an armoured bear who might know the way.”

 

Vax knows nothing about armoured bears, apart from the fact that they’re rumoured to be highly territorial and isolationist, but Percy frowns, looking a little doubtful. “There’s only one colony of armoured bears, as far as I know,” he says slowly. “And they all live together, which means that if you know where one of them is, you would know where all of them live.”

 

“Oh, no,” Scanlan says cheerily. “This one’s a loner – had some disagreement or something with the king, and left the colony to strike out on his own. He’s a sensitive artistic soul, y’know, didn’t fit in too well with the rest of the fighter-type bears. Here, he even gave me this to show what good friends we are.”

 

From beneath the collar of his tunic, Scanlan pulls out what appears to be a roughly-hewn metal pendant in the approximate shape of a circle, threaded onto a long leather cord that hangs around his neck. It’s possibly the ugliest piece of jewelry Vax has ever seen, but Percy leans forward, looking intrigued.

 

“Is that from his armour?” he asks. “I was under the impression that armoured bears don’t part with their armour.”

 

“Normally, no,” Scanlan says. “Turns out, though, if an armoured bear owes you a life-debt, it’s a tradition to give a gift of sky-iron in gratitude. But I had no use for armour, and he didn’t have much spare sky-iron on hand, so he cut this for me out of a plate of his armour instead.”

 

Vex, currently wearing her best _what-is-going-on_ expression, opens her mouth as though to say something, and then closes it again. Percy sighs. “Well, it’s worth a shot,” he says dryly. “At the very least, figuring out where the Conclave is might get us closer to hunting down Ripley.”

 

Vax remembers the cold smile of Anna Ripley, the indifference of her monkey-daemon, and shudders. Vex had told him about how she’d threatened his life in order to make the rest let her go, and he can still hear the mocking curl of her voice sometimes, when he dreams restlessly.

 

“Sounds like a good idea,” he says hoarsely. “Before her experiments kill anyone.” (Anyone _else_ , he almost says, but he bites it back. He’s still here, after all – heart still beating, breath still in his lungs. Scarred, but alive.)

 

Much later, when their impromptu meeting has scattered with vague plans to sail back to Ank’Harel in the morning, Vax sits by the side of the lake of the Vesrah. The combination of having an entire prophecy dropped on him, the desperate flight across the ocean from Ank’Harel, and the reminder that Ripley was still at large somewhere haunt him a little, and so he sits by the lakeside and watches the moonlight bounce of ripples on the water surface instead of sleeping.

 

It’s peaceful, this time of night. A soft breeze blows through the stray strands that have slipped out from his ponytail, and ruffles Nera’s wing feathers with the lightest touch.

 

“Hey,” he hears from behind him, but doesn’t move. The voice is female, but the loud crunching footsteps mean they can’t be his sister, who’s long learned how to walk stealthily. Instead, it’s Keyleth who sits down on the ground next to him, Mynxi flying past her in a rush of air to make a loop around the lake.

 

“Heavy thoughts?” she asks.

 

He’s quiet for a while. “I don’t understand,” he says eventually, quietly, afraid to break the tranquility of the night. “My sister and I, we’re just mercenary explorers. People like us… we don’t end up involved in these kinds of things. These matters larger than ourselves. We’re not heroes or anything, we’re just trying to survive.”

 

Keyleth laughs softly. “The two aren’t mutually exclusive,” she says. “You might say that just wanting to survive every day might be selfish, but having to get up and _live_ every day in the face of unknown danger… that’s a special kind of bravery. You’re a good person, Vax. Don’t sell yourself short.”

 

He turns to look at her then, her side profile illuminated by the moonlight, the copper strands of her hair turned silver. She’s looking not at him but out at the lake, where Mynxi is soaring on an upwards gust of air, a little wistful smile curling at the corners of her mouth. In that instant, Vax feels it – the little warm feeling he’d fought not to acknowledge in the pit of his chest, the one for which he has no name.

 

 _Don’t have such faith in me_ , he doesn’t say.

 

 _You don’t know what I’ve done_ , he doesn’t say.

 

But he reaches out across the couple of inches, puts his hand on top of her smaller one. For a brief moment it’s warm, before she startles and snatches her hand away, staring at him in surprise, red creeping up the tips of her ears.

 

“Um,” she squeaks.

 

Vax isn’t what others might consider a conventionally attractive man – lean where others are muscled, graceful where others are firm. But he’s had his share of flirtations, with women and with men. He’s never felt so out of his depth as he has now, Keyleth looking at him like a skittish baby deer, confused and startled. It’s like he’s standing on the edge of a precipice, trying to jump across a chasm to reach the other side.

 

But Vax has always been good at jumping headlong into danger – it’s Vex who’s the more rational one. So, he jumps.

 

“I think I like you,” he says, all in a rush, unable to reach for anything more poetic. “Uh. The way you do magic and stuff is really cool.”

 

The surprise on her face fades, to be replaced by understanding, and then… fear? She clutches her hand to her chest, breaks her gaze, and looks away to the surface of the lake once more.

 

“You shouldn’t,” she says quietly.

 

Vax frowns. “I’m not expecting a reply from you,” he says, perplexed by her reaction. “But I can’t help what I feel.”

 

There’s a downwards twist to Keyleth’s lips, like she’s upset but doesn’t want to say so aloud. She’s quiet for a good long while, and so Vax waits. Finally, _finally_ , she speaks, not looking at him: “My mother loved my father a lot. Perhaps too much.”

 

She raises her hand, the one he’d reached for, splays the fingers out like a fan and holds it up towards the sky. “Witches live for centuries, Vax. My mother met my father when she was nearly five hundred years old. Their love was beautiful, but it was short and fleeting. My mother became a widow when she was just past five and a half centuries old, and she’s never stopped hurting ever since. Such is the tragedy of a witch’s love.”

 

Sorrow twists her features, and she looks fragile in that moment, as though any word from Vax may break her. “I’m only barely past my second century in age, you know? I’m afraid to fall in love, because I know I’m only going to watch them die. Every time I look at the face of a person I think I love, it might be the last time. And it terrifies me, Vax. My mother’s grief is a wound over a hundred and fifty years in the healing, and it’s still raw. Some days she seems alright, but some days I can see past her façade, see her heart still fractured on the inside. I don’t want that kind of pain. I don’t think I could bear it.”

 

It hurts. Vax won’t pretend that it doesn’t. Somehow, what hurts more is that she doesn’t outright reject his confession. Nera is quiet, though she presses her tiny feathered body to his cheek in comfort.

 

Before he can reply, before he can do anything, there is a shift in the wind, as it blows a swirl of tiny dried leaves right into Keyleth’s face. Except, as she catches them in her hands and Vax leans over, he realises that they aren’t leaves, but the petals of a periwinkle-blue flower, slightly wilted as they lie on Keyleth’s palm. She closes her fingers around them and closes them for a moment, concentrating, even as Mynxi comes racing back from the far end of the lake, as though summoned by this strange phenomenon.

 

“It’s a summons,” Keyleth says at last, shooting him a quick, nervous glance before getting to her feet. “I am needed at home.”

 

“You’re leaving us?”

 

“To them, I was on a mission for my mother,” she replies, worrying her lip between her teeth. “They don’t know about this detour, so they think I’m still on official business. Which means if they are calling me back, it’s an emergency. I _have_ to go, Vax.”

 

There’s worry in her voice, and he relents. “Come back soon,” he says. “I think we are going to be in sore need of your guidance, moving forward.”

 

She hesitates, just a little, but nods. “I will be as fast as I can.” She turns as though heading back to the hut, probably to fetch her belongings and her flying-branch, but then pauses as though something’s just come to her.

 

“Here,” she says, plucking a red flower out from her hair and holding it out to him. “Keep this – it will help me find all of you once this summons has been dealt with.”

 

He closes his fingers around the flower, tucks it carefully away into a coat pocket. “Take care,” he says.

 

She looks at him once more, a searching gaze, and nods. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, though he doesn’t know what it’s for. (For being afraid? For the rejection? For leaving?)

 

A rush of wind, and she’s gone. Vax stands alone by the lakeside, watching, even as a dark shape darts out from the huts and soars away on a twisted branch, heading off into the night.

 

~

 

They wake in the morning less one witch, and with a long and slow journey back by boat. Vax tells them that Keyleth had been summoned back to her people – “An emergency, she said” – but he looks so sad and alone that nobody prods any further.

 

Except, well, Vax’s her brother, and she’d be blind not to notice the way he and Keyleth have been glancing at the other when their back is turned, pretending or perhaps not noticing that everyone else can see the shy glances. And she’d be stupid not to draw a link between Keyleth’s sudden disappearance and Vax’s renewed gloom.

 

So. “Hey,” Vex says, sitting beside him slumped against the side-wall of the boat. “Why so cranky?”

 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Vax says, voice barely more than a whisper. “Not now, at least.”

 

Vex sniffs, but says nothing more. Vax has been in snits like this before, and she’s sure he’ll tell her eventually, like he always does. Still she can’t resist ribbing him a little.

 

“Missing your girlfriend?” she asks with a slight grin as she nudges his shoulder. “Witches come and go, you know. She’ll be back.”

 

Vax doesn’t answer, but she sees Nera twitch a little, and knows she’s hit her mark. _Victory_ , she thinks, and smirks.

 

Nobody else on the boat is in a good mood, mostly occupied with figuring out whether they’ll need to sneak back into Ank’Harel, given the circumstances of their departure. This, conveniently, is answered with a quick consultation of the alethiometer, which tells them that the Conclave is actively searching for them within the city.

 

Without witch-aided wind to speed up their journey, they take almost three full days of sailing to reach Ank’Harel, and it’s in the cold of pre-dawn that they reach an empty and silent harbour.

 

“Even the Conclave’s men need to sleep, I guess,” Vex says dryly, looking up and down the deserted pier. “Good for us, no doubt.”

 

“Don’t celebrate just yet,” Percy replies grimly. “Even with the ground-gas vents at the aërodock, it will take me a good hour or two to fill the balloon. If we are discovered before then, we will have no means of escape.”

 

They slink around the edge of the city, Vex with her heart in her throat – Trinket is not an especially inconspicuous daemon, and all it would take is for one early riser to look out their window and see the silhouette of a giant bear to raise the alarm on them. A couple of times, she thinks she sees a shifting shadow out of the corner of her eye, and her hand jumps to her crossbow, but the night remains peacefully silent. Luck, inexplicably, is on their side, and they make it to the perimeter fence of the massive aërodock without being sighted.

 

The gate set into the fence is locked, but Vex and her brother have had years of experience getting out of places they’ve been locked into. Vax wordlessly pulls out his set of lock picks from an inner pocket of his coat, and gets the lock open in under a minute.

 

“I can’t lock it back, so they’ll know that someone broke in,” he says quietly. “We’ll have to be quick.”

 

“Keep watch,” Percy says tersely, pushing past and heading straight for his balloon. “Vex, you may want to get Trinket in the basket first, before things start getting frantic.”

 

~

 

Grog is not the stealthiest of men, and it is with great trepidation that he tiptoes his way to the main gate, on the opposite side from Vax, to keep an eye out for anyone approaching. Pike has stayed back to assist Vex and Percy in hauling Trinket into the balloon basket, but Scanlan, interestingly, has stayed by his side.

 

“I hope you don’t mind, big man,” he says in a stage whisper. “This sneaking around is all pretty cool, I’ve never done it before.”

 

“If you don’t stay quiet we won’t be sneaky for much longer,” Nera snaps grumpily. Grog doesn’t know what happened at the lake with the Vesrah witches, but Vax has since gone from mildly angsty to full-blown stick-up-his-ass moody prick overnight, and it’s not a change he thinks he can tolerate for long. In this case, however, Nera’s right, so he grudgingly doesn’t say anything.

 

He loses track of the passing time, but soon the faintest hint of the pale blue of early dawn begins to sneak across the sky. Almost simultaneously, Phillip stiffens, raising his snout to the air.

 

“Someone’s approaching,” he says quietly. “Smells like the guy from before, when we first arrived at the aërodock.”

 

Vax nods, and looks like he’s about to pull out one of his many daggers, when Scanlan holds out an arm.

 

“We just need to distract the guy, right?” he asks. “I can do that. You go back and tell them at the balloon to hurry up.”

 

Vax doesn’t say anything, but doesn’t move either – he cocks his head and looks straight at Scanlan, eyebrow raised. Scanlan shrugs.

 

“I’m a great liar,” he says, flashing Vax a quick thumbs-up. There’s a pause, but then Vax shrugs, sticking the dagger back into his belt. “If you screw up, I’m going to throw you out of the basket,” he says seriously, but he’s already heading back towards where the rest are gathered around the balloon.

 

Grog risks a quick glance back. At this point, the balloon is beginning to rise off the ground, Percy coaxing the warm gas shooting up from vents dug into the ground of the aërodock. Not nearly enough to take off, though – the balloon still looks a little flatter than it usually does.

 

He feels a nudge in the ribs, and looks down to see Scanlan grinning. “Hey, big man,” he says. “How do you feel about pretending to be drunk for a bit?”

 

“I… what.”

 

Phillip snorts, and promptly flops onto his belly, tongue lolling out. “I’ve seen drunk people’s daemons pretty much comatose,” he says drolly, but Grog sees the way his paws are tucked under his belly, and knows that his daemon is readying himself to spring up (or spring _away_ ) at any moment.

 

“Well, then, alright,” Grog says, not seeing much choice apart from going with… whatever plan Scanlan’s cooked up. “Here, catch.”

 

He pretends to have his knee give out like he’s seen drunk people do outside taverns, listing to one side and putting his weight onto Scanlan’s shoulder as he staggers a step forward. He’s usually a sleepy drunk, drinking a ton and then blacking out, but if they’re to make a distraction a sleeping drunk man is unlikely to do much.

 

He hears a grunt from Scanlan as he stumbles under Grog’s weight, but the shorter man recovers admirably. Scanlan leads him forwards, step by staggering step, until they’re pressed up against the fencing of the aërodock.

 

“Hey!” Scanlan calls out to the approaching figure. “Hey, you! Let us out.”

 

The man is getting closer now, and Grog can see that it is indeed the keeper of the aërodock. He looks startled at seeing people inside his enclosed land, and then suspicious. “How’d you end up in my aërodock?” he growls, brows furrowed.

 

“Please-” and here Scanlan pauses to pretend to belch a little, “my friend and I, we climbed up here on a dare, and we can’t get out, see. The big guy here, he’s had too many shots of fire-water, and I’m afraid if I boost him up he’ll throw it all back up onto me.”

 

Obligingly, Grog stumbles a little more, letting out what he hopes sounds like a pained groan. “Oh,” he says, as convincingly as he can. He’s been drunk many times, and he’s only lost his memory on _some_ of those occasions – the ghost of queasiness after one too many jugs of ale returns to him easily. “Ugh. I don’t feel so good. Why are there two moons in the sky?”

 

“See?” says Scanlan. “Please. Let us out, and we shall be out of your hair and into our warm beds, all the better for both of us.”

 

The man is staring at Grog in disgust and horror, but Grog lets it slide, because the more time the man spends staring at him the less he spends looking around to see that one of the balloons is getting ready to leave. He fake-hiccups a little and groans, putting a hand to his head.

 

“Hurts,” he mumbles. “World spinning too fast.” He staggers sideways, off Scanlan’s shoulder and into the fence itself, feeling part of it buckle as it takes his weight. He thinks he can hear a startled _eep_ from the dock-keeper, which is then gratifyingly followed by a jingle of keys.

 

He risks a quick glance backwards. The balloon is almost to full altitude now, the strings tying it to the basket still a little less taut than would be ideal, and he figures he might need to buy a little more time.

 

The man unlocks the gate with a _click_ and allows them to walk through, but Grog stumbles and pretends to collapse right in the dirt by the man’s feet. “Head hurts,” he groans. “Can you spare some water?”

 

He accompanies this with a dry-retching sound, and the man’s daemon makes a soft sound of what Grog assumes is possibly distress, given that a towering Tartar-man is essentially lying at his feet, still with a sword strapped to his back, and threatening to puke all over his shoes.

 

“I’ll get a bucket,” says the man, sounding freaked out, “but after that, please leave. They’re looking for lurkers in this city now, you know. If you go around all suspicious at night, people might think you have something to hide.”

 

“We’re sorry,” Scanlan says, sounding genuinely contrite. “It was a bit of drunken fun, really. We promise we’ll leave after you get my friend here some fresh water.”

 

The man grumbles, and Grog can’t see his expression from where he’s lying on the floor, but he sees it as the man turns and leaves, probably to walk towards the nearest inn or other source of fresh water. Grog, checking that the man’s boots are pointed away from then, chances another glance back – the balloon is looking pretty good at this point, and he can see a figure in the distance – the only visible figure, in fact – waving at them.

 

“Well,” he says quietly, scrambling to his feet. “Good job, time to go.”

 

He clamps his hand around Scanlan’s and pulls, Phillip jumping to his feet and racing ahead to leap into the basket. Getting closer to the basket, it’s easy to see that everyone else has crouched inside the basket, trying their best to hide from view. The bulk of Trinket’s body, however, cannot be hidden, and the slim silhouette of Percy standing outside the balloon is also very conspicuous.

 

Behind them, they hear a shout. Grog doesn’t bother wasting time to figure out who it is, but Scanlan chuckles. “Looks like our dear dock-keeper found himself two drunkards short,” he says wryly as they reach the basket, and Grog snorts.

 

“Easily tricked,” he says, almost flinging Scanlan willy-nilly into the basket before jumping in himself.

 

“Go, go, go, go,” Scanlan chants, as Percy himself leaps into the basket, grabbing onto the ropes that keep the balloon tied. Grog reaches out of the basket, unsheathing his sword as he does, and slices through the other ropes securing the basket to the ground. He feels a jerk as the balloon, now filled with hot air, begins to rise, and the basket begins to leave the ground.

 

Only now does he look out of the basket, laughing a little as he sees the dock-keeper running full pelt towards them, an abandoned bucket in the distance by the gate he’d unlocked. “You’re a nice guy!” he calls as the basket begins to pull upwards in earnest.

 

Soon, the dock-keeper is but a speck on the ground, and Grog turns to settle himself fully into the basket. With one newly-added passenger, it’s a tighter squeeze than usual, but with Percy standing and Vex half-sprawled into her brother’s lap, almost, there’s just enough space for him to sit cross-legged on the floor of the basket.

 

Scanlan sits opposite him, eyes wide as the clouds go rushing past them.

 

“This is _wild_ ,” he says, softly. “I know you guys mentioned having a balloon before, but I’ve never been in one, and…. wow. I don’t think I could ever have imagined something like this.”

 

Pike smiles, and bumps her shoulder into Scanlan’s. “Yeah,” she says softly, turning to beam at Grog. “It’s kind of cool, huh.”

 

~

 

The Zephrah, like the other _ashari_ clans, live around a lake, their home set in the middle of the Summit Peaks to the east of the continent. It’s not particularly near Ank’Harel nor the Vesrah, which had been far to the south, and Keyleth knows it will take a good several days’ flight to get there. Still, she presses herself flat against her branch of cloud-pine, leans forward, hoping that it’ll make her get home just a little bit faster.

 

Mynxi keeps up with her with little trouble, gliding on the air currents with wings outstretched, and she can sense the grim urgency in him as well. But they are still mortal, and their bodies tire. “I know what Vax’ildan said to you, the other night by the lake,” Mynxi says one night, as they make camp in the shadow of a mountain. “Sending me across the lake doesn’t shield me from your heart just because I’m out of earshot, you know.”

 

“This is neither the place or time for that conversation,” Keyleth replies a little bitterly, sitting down with more force than intended on her makeshift bed of fallen leaves. “And you should know why. You’re my heart, aren’t you?”

 

Mynxi shrugs his wings, makes the little chuffing noise Keyleth recognises as bird-laughter. “Doesn’t mean I agree,” he says dryly. “You’re being stupid, Keyleth.”

 

“ _You’re_ stupid,” Keyleth returns, unable to come up with a better comeback. She pulls her knees to her chest and hugs them close, peering over her kneecaps at the bright golden eyes of her daemon. “Mother and Korrin still grieve till today, you know,” she adds, and unbidden an image of her mother’s silhouette arises in her mind, sitting on the edge of the cliff overlooking the Zephrah’s home lake, her sparrow-daemon perched on her shoulder, and both their shoulders heavy with sadness. “It’s a hundred and fifty years since Dad, well, went away, and the pain hasn’t left her. _You_ know.”

 

Mynxi is silent, and for a time the only sound Keyleth hears is the soft whisper of the wind tangling in her long hair. “Vax told you something, back at the lakeside with the Pyrah,” he says at last. “You asked what you should do if you’re scared of something you can’t prevent, right?”

 

“…Yes?”

 

“And what did Vax tell you in return?”

 

Keyleth sighs. “If you can’t prevent it, there’s no point worrying. But- how can I just stop _worrying_ about something like this, Mynxi? Humans are so fragile, and their lives so fleeting. It would be a human’s lifetime of joy, maybe, but an _ashari_ ’s lifetime of loneliness after.”

 

“Oh, Keyleth,” Mynxi sighs, inching forward to rest his beak gently on her knee, like he used to do when they were much younger, when their mother’s grief was raw and fresh and kept her gazing out at nothing instead of accompanying her young daughter. “We’re already lonely, you know.”

 

Another evening, when they’ve stopped in a copse of trees to rest, she asks: “What do you think it is? Why do you think they’ve called us back?”

 

“Can’t be anything trivial,” Mynxi says, sounding worried. “Mother _specifically_ said we weren’t to receive correspondence unless it was a matter of grave importance.”

 

“You don’t think-” Keyleth swallows, voice trembling, and tried again. “You don’t think it’s that Raishan woman, the one from the Conclave that Cerkonos warned us about?”

 

Mynxi shudders, and both of them recall Cerkonos’ story of torture and murder. Keyleth reaches into her quiver and takes out the arrow from Cerkonos, studies its impossibly sharp tip.

 

“Uvenda warned of approaching darkness,” he says, reluctantly. “I think we must prepare for the worst, Keyleth. I honestly do not know what to expect.”

 

“If it is,” she says quietly, “we’ll be ready for her.”

 

The sun is almost set at this point, bathing the sky in fiery light. It’s a breathtaking sight, and though she’s still anxious, arrow gripped in one hand, Keyleth takes a moment to let the tranquility sink in.

 

(Of course, that’s when it all goes to shit.)

 

Between one moment and the next, in a single pass of a glowing orange cloud across the molten round sun, there is a jolt, and Keyleth can hear the screams of a thousand star-songs cut off abruptly and… gone. She scrambles to her feet, eyes wide, skin trembling still with the ghostly aftershock.

 

Something is wrong in the world. Something is off-balance in the universe, and it chills her to the bone. “Mynxi,” she says in a hoarse whisper. “What was _that_?”

 

“ _That_ ,” he replies grimly, “was a work of a great darkness, I’d bet. We’d best hurry.”

 

~

 

Scanlan tells them that his armoured bear friend lives in the city of Deastok, somewhat to the east of the Wildemount tundra where the armoured bears are rumoured to live. Vex has no idea where that is, but pulls out the map Allura had given them all that time ago in Emon College – between the map, Percy’s compass, and Scanlan’s sharp eyes, they plot a vague path to their destination.

 

There’s still no word from Keyleth. Vax finally gets out of his funk after a day or so of hard flight in the balloon, and says that she’d left him one of her sending-flowers to track them down once she was done with her business. But try as she might, Vex still can’t pry from her brother the reason why he was so grumpy in the first place, though she still strongly suspects the witch had a major part to play in it.

 

(Somehow, a part of her hates the witch for that, hates that she can drive Vax to hurt and sadness from so many miles away.)

 

Time passes quicker than it used to on the balloon, because it transpires that Scanlan is a good storyteller, and the many long hours spent sitting in the cramped basket seem to melt away as Scanlan tells them story after story, sometimes with the aid of a small lyre in his pack, and other times with his daemon chiming in to do some of the special voices.

 

It’s probably a good three or four days into their journey when it happens. By Percy’s _very_ rough estimation, they’re somewhere over the Wildemount tundra right now, a day or two away from Deastok. The cold bites through her furs here, and Vex finds herself leaning into Trinket as much as she can, trying to leech his warmth.

 

The sun is setting, rich fiery reds and golds melding together like a sky on fire, fading into dusky grey. Vex is peering out of the basket, marveling at how beautiful the sky looks from up here, when she hears Vax gasp. She spins, only to see her brother leaning against the side of the basket, his face deathly white.

 

“Vax,” she says urgently. “What happened? You look _awful_.”

 

He shakes his head, looking lost, one trembling hand on Nera’s feathers. “Something’s happened,” he whispers. “Just for a moment, I thought I heard the sky scream aloud.”

 

Vex screws her eyes shut, but feels nothing but the cold winds whipping her face. “I don’t feel anything,” she says, frowning, but when she opens her eyes again Vax is still pale and wan, looking a little sick. Everyone else in the basket has noticed him by now, and Vex can see Pike reaching for the pouch she keeps around her neck.

 

“I could ask the alethiometer what’s going on,” she volunteers cautiously, staring wide-eyed at Vax, but Vax shakes his head.

 

“It might have been my imagination,” he says shakily. “Or it might not have been. I don’t know how the alethiometer works, but I’m not sure you would have enough to go on to ask a specific question right now. But something has gone wrong, somewhere, I think.”

 

“D’you think it might have somethin’ to do with, y’know, the prophecy the witch was mentionin’?” Grog asks, peering over from where he’s stood at the navigational controls of the balloons.

 

Pike frowns. “Might have been,” she says. “I-”

 

But whatever she might have been about to add, Vex will never know, because in the next instant a dark creature with leathery wings, shaped vaguely like a skeletal bat but perhaps two to three times as large, has appeared from the clouds, heading straight for them. Its sharp teeth are stretched in a grimace someone more charitable might have called a smile, and its horrifying cackle forms a discordant, chilling sound that wraps around them amidst the whistling of the cold winds.

 

Its gaze is focused directly on Pike.

 

“Dust-child,” it says, its voice thin and reedy like it was formed from a howling wind on a cold and lonely night. As it opens its mouth, Vex can smell the distinctively sour smell of carrion and decay, and instinctively shies away. “I can feel the Dust burning a hole in your pocket right there. You must be the one.”

 

Vax shifts, and Vex sees one of his hands creeping towards one of the daggers at his belt. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a flash of purple as Scanlan stands and warily places himself between Pike and the creature. Slowly, so as not to draw attention to herself, Vex reaches for her crossbow as well.

 

“Useless,” says another screechy voice from behind, and Vex spins, heart in her throat, to see another winged creature with an identically creepy toothy grin, eyes on Pike’s unprotected back. “We have come for the Dust-child, but we can just as easily eat all of you as well.”

 

There’s a _bang_ , and a bullet-hole suddenly appears in the membrane of the creature’s wing. “Cliff-ghasts do not usually bother travelers,” says Percy grimly, from where he’s standing with the controls at the front of the basket. “Under whose orders do you seek our companion? What did they offer you?”

 

“It matters not,” cackles the cliff-ghast that Percy had shot, the one undamaged wing now flapping harder than the injured one in order to allow it to stay in the air. “We have been promised a grand _feast_. Take the child full of Dust, and we will feast well tonight!”

 

“A _feast_!” crows the other, and there is a blur of silver as the long blade of Grog’s sword suddenly slices through the air and embeds itself into its wing-joint. The cliff-ghast shrieks in pain, wheeling away from the basket before returning, keeping at their altitude with a visible amount of effort now.

 

“Leave,” snarls Vex at the two creatures, making an effort not to breathe too deeply – the scent of rot blows downwind as the balloon continues to fly forward, and she and her brother at the back of the balloon are getting the brunt of it. She raises the crossbow menacingly, pointing it at the one Grog had just savaged.

 

The cliff-ghast cackles, and twists upwards, a sharp claw extended as it heads for the balloon itself. _It’s going to rip the balloon_ , Vex realises. In an instant, the following happens:

 

Vex, swearing out loud, aims her crossbow upwards and fires, the heavy iron bolt missing the cliff-ghast’s head by mere inches and flying uselessly through the clouds above.

 

Percy, following the swing of Vex’s arm, fires three shots in quick succession at the cliff-ghast. It dodges two of them, but the third rips through the wing not already injured by Grog, and it shrieks in pain, falling a few feet and disappearing below the basket.

 

And this:

 

While all eyes are on the cliff-ghast threatening the balloon, the second cliff-ghast, one bullet-hole ripped clean through its wing, swoops in with claws extended, going straight for Pike.

 

Except, it doesn’t, because not all eyes were trained upwards. Even as Pike is scrabbling for the knife at her belt, to swing in defence, the cliff-ghast’s claws close around someone else entirely. Scanlan, panicking Scanlan, with no ranged weapons and no way of even trying to fend off the cliff-ghast high in the air, backs away as the cliff-ghast swoops in, pushing Pike behind him. The cliff-ghast, not expecting this, has no time to adjust the angle of its swoop, and when it soars clear of the basket it is holding Scanlan’s slight form, struggling in its grasp, a terrified Aes gripping harder to his collar than she’s ever done before.

 

“You’re not the one we want,” snaps the cliff-ghast, and Vex jerks her head back down just in time to see the cliff-ghast’s clawed grip loosen. She thinks she might have screamed aloud, but there’s nothing she can do but reach out in vain as Scanlan, dragged purely by coincidence into their dangerous journey, goes plummeting through the clouds with a quickly-fading shriek of terror.

 

“No,” she snarls, as the cliff-ghast rallies itself for another swoop into their basket. She fires another bolt from her crossbow in the same instant that Vax, beside her, hurls one of his daggers straight at the chest of the cliff-ghast. This time, both sink true, and there’s not even a spurt of black blood before the cliff-ghast falls with a ghastly scream.

 

“Died too fuckin’ soon,” snaps Grog, hand on his sword and looking very put out.

 

“Scanlan,” Pike whispers, wide-eyed. “He- he pushed me backwards so they wouldn’t get to me. And now he’s… he’s gone?”

 

“We can’t land and find out,” Percy replies grimly. “Even as he was falling we’ve been moving forward, and it’s all tundra down there. We would never be able to find our way back to where he was dropped, not without a navigator. Even if we tried to land right now and walked out to find him, we might never find our way back to the balloon, and it would be nearly impossible to fill the balloon back up again.”

 

There’s a moment of silence, Pike worrying her lip between her teeth. “We’re… we’re going to find a bear, right? In Deastok? Could he help us find Scanlan? Even if he’s-” she stops and swallows, face ashen. “-if he’s dead, he deserves a proper burial or something.”

 

By the time they get to Deastok, a hungry predator might have found his body, Vex thinks a little morbidly, but she sees the crease of Pike’s brow, the guilt in her eyes, and doesn’t say anything.

 

Not that she gets the chance to, because in the next instant, the second cliff-ghast swoops up from below the basket, eyes alight with grim madness, and goes straight for Pike. This time, nobody’s prepared, and she’s screaming in its grasp even as Percy whips around and fires a shot blindly in the direction of the fleeing cliff-ghast, almost as if on instinct.

 

Except, _except-_

 

Except it’s too late.

 

The bullet tears into the injured wing of the cliff-ghast only as it clears the lip of the basket, and they only have a second of horrified realisation as the cliff-ghast tries to flap hard once, twice, and then goes down, the strength of one wing insufficient to bear the weight of both itself and Pike.

 

There’s a beat of horrified silence, Vex watching wide-eyed Pike disappear from view almost in slow-motion, the furious roar of realisation from Grog sounding muted as though coming from deep underwater.

 

And then-

 

(And _then-_ )

 

Seren, poor Seren whose honey badger form meant he couldn't cling to Pike’s collar like Aes had to Scanlan, who had been ignored by the cliff-ghast when its two claws could only barely hold the weight of one human woman, who had been _left in the basket_ even as his human had dropped through the clouds in the grip of her captor-

 

Seren begins to scream.

 

~

 

Pike is falling.

 

The claws of the cliff-ghast are tight around her even as they both fall through layer after layer of freezing cloud together, and it’s shrieking in her ear as blackish blood leaks from its wounds and into her clothes. Pike thinks she might be shrieking too, but any sound she makes is snatched away instantly by the wind whistling past her, whipping her hair into her face and her eyes and forcing the breath from her lungs.

 

The feeling of weightlessness, of free-falling, is terrifying. The shock of it, of not having solid ground beneath her feet, insulates her from all other sensation, and for a moment she can’t feel anything but the beat of her terrified heart, can’t hear anything but her laboured breathing.

 

And then, suddenly, she feels the pain. Not _physical_ pain, because the cliff-ghast is in no shape to hurt her at the moment. But there’s a sensation deep in her chest, like someone had reached into her and pulled away the part that made up her soul, the part that made her _Pike_ , leaving behind just her human shell.

 

(Once, when Pike was younger, her grandfather had taken her to the sea to watch a whale-hunt. One of the other Gyptian clans had found a large whale swimming close to their boats, and had declared a huge celebration as their best hunters sped forth to capture it. Whale oil and whale baleen were valuable items to trade for coin, and the meat would feed many a Gyptian family through the winters – truly a joyous occasion.

 

Standing on the pier, hand in hand with her grandfather, Pike had watched as the men, one after the other, threw long spear-shaped harpoons at the thrashing form of the whale. Finally, when more than ten harpoons had been thrown, and the vigorous splashing in the water had calmed, the men had taken up the ropes attached to the harpoons, and they had pulled, hard, until the whale was dragged onto shore, away from its home in the sea.)

 

Falling, now, she feels the pain in her chest like as though ten thousand whaling harpoons had been sunk into her heart and are now being pulled by ten thousand Gyptian fishermen, yanking a part of her out of her chest, out of the sea, and away.

 

She only has just enough time to feel an aching emptiness before the pain escalates, blinding white beneath her closed eyelids, and she passes out.

 

~

 

Keyleth lands in the middle of the Summit Peaks, on the shores of a crystal-clear lake in the middle of the wide valley, and breathes in the fresh crips air of _home_. Her hands are still clutching tight to her cloud-pine branch, Mynxi landing unsteadily on the ground next to her with trembling wings from their final spurt, racing against the winds as they drew closer to familiar mountaintops.

 

Grabbing a sending-flower from her hair, she crushes it in her hand and watches it spiral away in an updraft. Her people would know to expect her, but given what’s been happening with the other _ashari_ clans recently she certainly isn’t going to blame them for heightened security or paranoia in any form.

 

And indeed, it’s not but a minute or two later that she begins to see the spiral of figures in familiar Zephrah green appearing from trees and cloud cover, coasting down to land. “Mistress Keyleth!” one of them calls, and Keyleth turns to see one of them dismount and run to her. Dark hair liberally streaked with grey and windswept, and wide purple eyes – this, Keyleth remembers, is Whitney, a long-time member of the Zephrah guard patrol.

 

“Whitney,” she says in greeting, as Mynxi rumbles in welcome to Whitney’s harried-looking goshawk-daemon. “I received a summons to return.”

 

“Mine, yes,” she says, wringing her hands together. “It’s the Queen. She’s disappeared.”

 

With those five words, Keyleth’s blood runs cold, and for a moment she can’t hear anything except the too-loud beat of her heart, staccato-quick, in her chest. “What,” she manages to get out. “What do you mean Mother’s disappeared?”

 

Agitated, Whitney runs a hand through her hair. “She received a call for aid from Terrah not but two weeks ago, and headed out with her usual guard,” she says. “We have yet to receive any message from her, and the messages we send to Terrah have gone unanswered. And then there was that _shift_ -”

 

“-Half a week ago?” Mynxi cuts in, looking about as faint as an albatross can look. “We felt it on the way here, it felt like the sky was torn apart and a million voices screamed.”

 

“We felt it here as well,” Whitney says, nodding. “It felt like something had gone wrong with the fundamental fabric of the world. It does not bode well, Mistress Keyleth, and so we called you back to ask what we should do. We do not even know if the Queen still lives, or if she has been ambushed.”

 

For an aching moment, Keyleth remembers being thirty years old, following behind her mother as the Zephrah sought her counsel, hoping to one day become as charismatic, as wise, Here, now, someone is asking her counsel, without her mother by her side, and she feels the absence like a gaping wound.

 

“She _can’t_ be dead,” Keyleth says, hand going automatically to the amulet she wears around her neck, tucked deep into her robes.

 

( _Keep this with you always, my love_ , she hears her mother Vilya’s voice in her head, as her mother gives her a wooden amulet carved in the shape of a bird in flight, its eyes set in sparkling green jade, the faint hum of her mother’s magic lighting the carved lines a faint blue-green. If she closes her eyes, she can smell the faint honeysuckle scent of her mother, curling around her like a comforting blanket. _It will keep you safe, as long as my magic lives._ )

 

Except, she’d never thought to check the amulet, never thought anything could have happened to her mother, her one constant in a world shifting through the decades. She’d been too worried, too caught up in all the talk of prophecy and foretelling, that she’d almost forgotten that there was a persistent threat to her own people as well.

 

Trembling, she pulls on the long leather cord around her neck, fishing out the amulet from where it sits at sternum-level beneath her tunic in one clenched fist. She almost doesn’t dare to unfurl her fingers. Mynxi waddles forward, nudges at her closed fist with his beak until she loosens her grips, peers within-

 

The eyes of the bird, once perfect green jade, now bear a crack down the centre. The carved lines of the amulet are still, and do not hum. She brings it up to her face and closes her eyes, but the scent of honeysuckle clinging to the wood of the amulet is faint, like a perfume two weeks old lingering on the edge of a scarf.

 

Keyleth chokes back a sob. “She can’t be dead,” she says again, voice shaking. “She _can’t_.”

 

But her voice rings hollow, and she knows it. Witches, for all their long lives, are no stranger to death, and passing is not mourned, not when Yambe-Akka calls you over across the veil with a smile and open arms.

 

“These are strange and alarming times,” Whitney says quietly. “I am sorry, Mistress Keyleth, but you must become our Queen, and lead us now, give us direction. Become our Voice.”

 

Every witch-child knows from young that every _ashari_ Queen carries a title of their own, something unique to their clan. Just as Uvenda is the Heart of the Tides, Vilya is the Voice of the Tempest, and Cerkonos is-

 

(…Vilya _was_. _Keyleth_ is.)

 

This thought comes to her unbidden, and Keyleth bites down on her lip so hard that for a moment she almost thinks the skin might split open. She thinks of Uvenda’s prophecy, of the line that had caught her attention – _wings of tempest new_ , Uvenda had said. Now, Keyleth thinks, she knows what that means.

 

“Alright,” she whispers. She clears her throat once, twice, and tries again, voice a little more steady. “Alright. We don’t have time for the formalities now or anything, but we can deal with that later. I have learned of many interesting circumstances over the past couple of weeks – some distressing, some hopeful.”

 

She gathers her sisters, and they settle down in a congregation by the lakeside as Keyleth tells them what she knows. She tells them of what she’s seen since finding Percy, of Raishan and Cerkonos’ warning and Uvenda’s prophecy. That somewhere in the upper echelons of the Conclave there is a woman a little _too_ interested in the veils that the _ashari_ guard, that too many people in the small party she had met coincided with the words of the prophecy. That maybe, _maybe_ , the darkness the _ashari_ have sought to defend against all their long lives has somehow returned to their plane.  


“You should ask Uvenda of the Vesrah to confirm what has happened with a scrying,” Whitney says at last. “If the veil has indeed been torn, we must head there at once.”

 

“What of the prophesised children?” calls a voice from the back, the speaker obscured from immediate sight by their short stature.

 

“I will return to them to let them know what has happened,” Keyleth decides, after a thoughtful pause. “A small guard-party can come with me – goodness knows they seem to get into a lot more trouble than they seek out. I will see if we can get any further guidance from the fore-tellers of the Vesrah, but I suspect we will just have to guide them towards the source of the disturbance and figure out what to do along the way.”

 

“As prophecies often are,” sighs Whitney. “Very well.” She turns to the assembled crowd, and claps her hands sharply. “You heard the Queen!”

 

There’s an immediate bustle of activity, her sisters going to stock up on healing-herbs and other things they might need for a long journey, while Keyleth sends off a quick message to Uvenda. With luck, she muses, she’ll get an answer back within the next day or so.

 

 _Queen_ , she thinks, her heart still clenching momentarily around an empty space, as though something that used to be there is now missing. _I hope I can do this._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! i'm sorry this took me so long, i've been trying to write half to one scene each evening when i get back from work, but trying to adjust to a new job is sometimes taxing on my muse. nevertheless, here we have another 15k or so words of this mad fusion!verse. it was meant to be longer, but i didn't want to put in any additional scenes that might take away from the strength of the ending that this chapter currently has. i'm already maybe a good 25% into chapter 4, so we shall see how much more i can add to it by the time the chinese new year break ends, hoho.
> 
> i know i initially promised a side focus on ships, but in the course of finishing up this chapter i went through the entire vecna arc of campaign 1, and HO BOY let me tell you i really needed to fix things and let my poor vaxleth babies be happy. somehow, that translated into vaxleth becoming a bigger thing than intended in the plot of this fic. sorry not sorry.
> 
> with luck, the next chapter will be the last, unless plot decides to run away from me again! we're almost at the end of this wild adventure, y'all, and i really can't express how much every one of your kind comments and reviews have encouraged me to keep writing. ;o;
> 
> since all the names can get quite confusing, here's a quick guide to vox machina's daemons:  
> vax'ildan: nera (raven)  
> vex'halia: trinket (brown bear)  
> percival: vesper (white wolf)  
> grog: phillip (samoyed)  
> pike: seren (honey badger)  
> keyleth: mynxi (albatross)  
> scanlan: aes (meerkat)


	4. i'll find you when our paths / cross by the gold mines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Journey to the West: Pieces of the puzzle slowly come together, and the party races against time to stop darkness from creeping upon the earth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No new His Dark Materials concepts in this chapter, save for those that are explained in the course of the story.
> 
> Chapter title from [Tokyo Sunrise by LP](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NFnIuBB9YAo).

The reply from Uvenda is quick, a summons to return to Vesrah for an emergency leaders’ summit. The missive brooks no argument, but Keyleth thinks of the long flight she’d just taken over from Vesrah and sighs, reluctance washing over her like a tidal wave.

 

Mynxi, sensing her distress, nudges her gently with his beak. “I’ll go find Vax’ildan and the others first,” he says quietly. “I can lead the sisters who were planning on coming to guard them. Go on ahead to Vesrah, but take a guard with you to protect you while I protect your heart in your place.”

 

She swats at him then, annoyed. “Stop that nonsense about my heart,” she snaps, though with no real heat, and he lets out an amused chirp.

 

“You’re being stupid,” he says, before taking to the air, beckoning with one wing to the ten or so witches who had been waiting on standby. “Come!” he calls down to them. “The token we left with them still survives, and they are in the far north.”

 

Keyleth watches her soul, her Mynxi, fly off towards the people she has somehow come to call _friends_ , and sighs. “Alright,” she says quietly to herself. “You can do this, Keyleth. You’ve got this.”

 

With a swirl of her green robes, she and another ten-odd sisters take to their branches of cloud-pine and begin the long flight back to Vesrah. Not all of the Zephrah are going on this journey, and Keyleth’s left behind a good half or more of the clan to guard their lands just in case, but the presence of her sisters by her side, racing shoulder-to-shoulder towards some unknown truth lying in wait for them in Vesrah, is more comforting than she’d think to admit.

 

It’s a good week of hard flight, flying through bright sun and thick cloud and muddy star-song. The music of the night is less clear, somehow, like the night sky was a chorus of bells and someone had stolen away an entire section of them, but it’s still hauntingly beautiful.

 

Finally, _finally_ , they reach the shores of the Anamn Islands once more. As they land, Keyleth sees many witches robed in Vesrah blue, but also an equal number to her own travelling guard dressed in the deep crimson of the Pyrah. The reason for this becomes clear when Uvenda steps through the crowd to greet them, because by her side is the tall, muscular form of Cerkonos of Pyrah.

 

“Keyleth,” Uvenda dips her head in greeting first. “I must confess, I was startled at first, to receive a missive from you instead of your mother. I had sent her notice of this leaders’ summit, but received no response.”

 

“My mother-” Keyleth swallows, blinking hard to drive back the tears threatening to well up. “My mother is dead. I am the Voice of the Tempest, now.”

 

Uvenda dips her head, but does not seem surprised at the revelation. “We know,” she says, somber. “It is part of what we must discuss. Please, come. This will be a long conversation.”

 

She leads Keyleth and Cerkonos back to her hut, where not but two weeks or so ago she had sat on the soft rug with a different group of people, listening wide-eyed to the story of the origin of the _ashari_ and of a strange new prophecy.

 

“How times change,” Keyleth whispers to herself. Indeed, the air now in the room is much more solemn, and both Uvenda and Cerkonos look grim as they settle in chairs facing Keyleth, their backs to the window.

 

“So,” says Uvenda. “Where to begin… ah. Your missive. I felt the tremor in the universe that you described, Keyleth, and it worried me as well. It was why I called a leaders’ summit, but of the three other clans only Pyrah sent a response. A week later, imagine my surprise when I received a message from Zephrah, not from Vilya but from you, the new Voice of the Tempest, asking me for a scrying. So, scry I did.”

 

Uvenda sighs, runs a hand over the net of pearls woven into her fine hair. “I told you and your friends about the woman from the Conclave, last we met,” she says. “Cerkonos tells me she had heard from Terrah about this woman as well, a _Raishan_ , she of green eyes and cursed skin. It seems that on the night the sky tore apart, the woman Raishan was there.”

 

Keyleth stares, feels the thick oily hatred for the woman who she knew to have killed several of her sisters in cold blood well up in her heart. “What,” she says flatly.

 

“As it turns out,” Cerkonos takes over, “Raishan was not just interested in ripping open portals – she had a way to open one. The wrongness we felt not but a fortnight ago was proof of that. The veil that hangs over Terrah has been torn asunder, and even now the Whisper has begun to creep through, an urgent problem that the _ashari_ must address as one, as our sisters before us did many centuries ago.”

 

“How?” Keyleth bursts out, unable to keep silent. “The veil of banishment was no paltry magic, and the legends say it took the power of every one of the hundreds of _ashari_ to put it into place. You would need an extremely concentrated, potent burst of energy to try and break through it, I imagine.”

 

Uvenda dips her head. “You would be right,” she says quietly. “Raishan was not alone. She had four lieutenants with her, three of them along with Raishan wearing a brass cloak-pin in the shape of an ouroboros. This is what I could tell from my scrying: the first was tall and muscular, black of hair with a scarred face.”

 

Keyleth, unbidden, remembers the man from the Conclave who had chased them in Ank’Harel, who had declared them a Councillor of the Conclave and knew them on sight. She shudders.

 

“The second,” continues Uvenda, “had pure white hair though his face was unwrinkled, short around his face. A fighter like the first. The third was a tall red-haired man with one brown eye, and one a pure white. This one, Raishan called Thordak, and she seemed to defer to his command even though she directed the operation.”

 

“And the fourth?”

 

“A woman. Not a fighter like the other three, but dressed in a long white coat and with long brown hair and a pair of spectacles. She had a golden monkey daemon, as well. It was she who gave Raishan what she needed to rip open the portal – a set of strange machines with silvery blades.”

 

There is a pause, and then Keyleth’s eyes widen as the pieces come together in her mind. “A _silver guillotine_?” she whispers, horrified. This, she realises, might be the Ripley that Percy had mentioned hunting down back when they had made camp here in Vesrah.

 

“Yes,” Uvenda says, not noticing Keyleth’s growing horror. “I suspect that was what they were, especially after you mentioned that your shapechanging friend had been hurt by one. It would explain what happened next, certainly. The lieutenants, they had our sisters held hostage. One of them had your mother, Vilya; another had Pa’tice, Queen of the Terrah. Just as the sun dipped below the horizon, Raishan and the woman with the monkey-daemon released the silver blades, and they cut down – not on either of them, but on the space between them and their daemons. At the same time, a hundred of their men, holding a hundred of our sisters hostage, shot them clean through the head. It was-” Uvenda breathes in a shaky breath, voice trembling. “It was a _massacre_. Terrah is gone.”

 

Cerkonos frowns and leans forward in her chair, looking disturbed. “Why on _earth_ would so many deaths tear open the veil? Death is but a normal part of life.”

 

“Not death on such a scale,” Uvenda says. “I do not know for sure, but I suspect Dust had something to do with it, after all. When we die, our daemons go in a puff of Dust. What I saw in my scrying was a hundred and two bursts of golden Dust erupting all at once, and the twin bursts created by the silver guillotine were the largest of them all. When I remembered that the shapechanging boy had mentioned the Conclave’s obsession with measuring Dust, it occurred to me that perhaps a large, sudden release of Dust might have caused the veil to tear open.”

 

“And so the Whisper has been released once more,” says Cerkonos grimly.

 

“Indeed.”

 

“Then we are lost,” Keyleth whispers faintly. “It took four clans of the _ashari_ to seal the Whisper before. Now we only have three.”

 

“But, child, we have the prophesised ones,” counters Uvenda. She’s smiling now, but it’s a grim smile, and there is no joy in it, only determination. “We have the foretold, a man with many daemons who will drive back the darkness. I sense that it is to their side that the _ashari_ must go, to protect them and guide them to their destiny.”

 

“I- I’ve sent some of the Zephrah ahead to find them,” Keyleth whispers. “Mynxi has gone with them, but both of us can independently sense the token that we left with them. They are someplace to the north, still. But what will we do when we get there? Three clans of witches flying in one direction will surely not go unnoticed.”

 

“We will send some sisters to stake out the area around Terrah, take a survey of the damage that has been wrought,” Cerkonos says. “Others we will send to the bear colony to the north, to perhaps seek their aid. I forsee that if we are coming up against the Conclave, we will need all the aid we can get, and the _panserbjørne_ are tentative allies with whom the _ashari_ have a history, at least. Others still will need to stay behind, in case the Conclave tries the same trick with another part of the veils we guard.”

 

“And for those who go to find the prophesised one,” continues Uvenda serenely, “why, they have a girl with a truth-reader. We shall simply consult her on what the most appropriate course of action shall be.”

 

Keyleth nods. “Very well,” she says. “I know how to locate the prophesised one, so I can head there.”

 

“I will head to the bears,” Cerkonos volunteers. “I knew their king, once. They will listen to me.”

 

“And I will keep on scrying, and keep you updated on what I know,” finishes Uvenda. “I am too old for long-distance flight, I fear. But Yambe-Akka willing, I will be safe and most useful here. Now, go. Time is of the essence, my sisters.”

 

~

 

Scanlan wakes to cold, a wet sensation pressing against his face and neck and body, and his body sore and aching all over like he’s been dancing and playing the fiddle for a day straight without sleep.

 

“Ugh,” he groans, and opens his eyes. Immediately, all he sees is blinding white, and he squints them shut again.

 

“Where’re we?” he hears Aes groggily grumble, and he feels her warm weight detach itself from his shoulder.

 

Scanlan cracks open one eye, more cautious this time. There is snow _everywhere_ around him, the soft sunlight filtering through the clouds reflecting off the pure white of the snow and causing it to gleam bright. “Some… some flying things came for Pike. It got us. We fell,” he says, frowning as he tries to remember. “A long way down. It hurt a lot.”

 

He remembers, just before blacking out, a pain at the crown of his head, and he lifts his hand there now, grimacing at the sticky feeling of half-dried blood caked onto the skin at his forehead.

 

Aes scrambles up to perch on his head, as he wobbles upright with the grace of a baby deer. Bright spots blink into his vision for a split second and he winces, a faint pounding starting up at the back of his head.

 

“We are _so_ lost,” Aes says, peering around. Evidently, the height boost she gets by sitting on his head isn’t impressive enough to tell her any more than what Scanlan can already see for himself. “I think we were coming from… that way.” She pulls at his hair in a random direction and Scanlan snorts, stumbling forward in the ankle-deep pillowy snow. “I have no food on my person, and my pack was in the balloon,” he says dryly. “All I have on me is my flute.”

 

He fumbles in his pocket, and sighs. “My _broken_ flute,” he amends mournfully.

 

“We’ll starve to death whether we stay or we move,” Aes replies, slapping the side of his face with one tiny paw. “At least if we move, we won’t freeze to death, I guess. Now, move.”

 

And move, they do. It’s cold, and Scanlan’s wet clothes do little to ease the chill until they begin to dry, but the movement helps to keep him somewhat warmer. The spots swimming in and out of his vision fade after a while, but the rhythmic pounding in the back of his head only grows stronger and stronger with every hour he and Aes trudge through the snow. It’s hard to tell the time, but as the sun begins to set and the air begins to grow much colder, Aes gasps, pulling hard on Scanlan’s hair to get him to stop. “There,” she hisses, urgent. “In the snow. A dark shape.”

 

By now, Scanlan’s exhausted and dizzy and starving, and all he mumbles in response is, “Food?”

 

But they’re already upon the dark shape, and Scanlan realises with a jolt that clears the haze from his mind that it’s a person, around the same size as him, wrapped in a dark cloak with a shock of pale blonde hair. He reaches out and tugs on the edge of the cloak, using it to try and roll the person over, and-

 

It’s Pike.

 

Pike, with scratches on her arms and blood running down her face just like him, eyes closed and still. A few feet away from her is the equally unmoving body of the winged creature that had picked Scanlan up and thrown him from the basket, but he doesn’t even pay it much mind, because he’s staring at the empty space by Pike’s side, a hollowness that makes his blood run cold.

 

Where Seren should be, curled at her side to keep his human warm in this cold, there is no daemon.

 

Scanlan feels himself still. “No way,” he whispers, sinking his knees down into the grainy wet snow at her side. He reaches out to touch the side of her face, but it’s icy cold, and her eyes don’t twitch.

 

“Scanlan,” Aes whispers. “She’s breathing. Look!”

 

She points a tiny paw down at Pike’s chest, and Scanlan stares. After what feels like an impossibly long moment, he sees it – the tiniest rise and fall of the chest. He lets out a breath he didn’t even realise he was holding at the sight.

 

“Aes,” Scanlan says wearily. “I can’t bring her with us. I’m not strong enough.”

 

“Maybe she’ll wake up if we sleep one night?” But Aes sounds uncertain, and a chilly wind begins to blow as Scanlan scowls, the freezing cold tendrils of air ruffling his hair as they pass.

 

“She might,” he allows. “But, Aes, we’ll freeze _and_ starve if we stay here with her.”

 

“We’ll… we’ll dig a hole in the snow. It’ll block us from the wind. We can go without food for one night – it won’t be the first time.”

 

“And if she’s not awake tomorrow morning, we leave her?” Scanlan asks, voice cracking a little on the word _leave_. He hasn’t been with Pike and her group of friends very long, but there’s something about Pike that pulls him in, and the very thought of leaving her behind in this desolate snowscape is immediately undesirable.

 

Aes sighs. “We’ll make the decision tomorrow,” she says.

 

~

 

Literally the only thing that prevents Grog from jumping right out of the basket once he’d seen Pike fall is the fact that Seren, after passing out from his screaming fit, is still in the basket. Sure, he’s unconscious even after another few days of flying, but he’s _there_. And that means, Grog knows, that Pike is not yet dead. It’s the only thing that’s given him cold comfort on their silent flight to Deastok.

 

Soon enough, they begin to descend, and Percy awkwardly maneuvers them into a small aërodock on the edge of the city. They’ve been to several cities by now, but Deastok is by far the most stuffy city Grog has ever seen. The walls are high, the houses all look the same, and the people going to and fro wear plain clothing in shades of grey, with nary a bright colour in sight. Having spent half his growing-up in a Gyptian household, where every colour in every combination is fair game, this is supremely dull in comparison.

 

“Right,” says Percy, the first word he’s spoken since he’d tried (and failed) to stop the cliff-ghast from taking Pike. “Did S- Scanlan ever tell us the name of his bear friend?”

 

He stumbles over the name _Scanlan_ , and Grog can’t blame him – for such a small scamp, and a late addition to their group, Scanlan is another presence Grog misses dearly.

 

“No,” Vex says, after a long drawn-out pause. “He didn’t.”

 

“Great,” says Vesper, stretching out her back and giving her head a couple of shakes. “And we don’t have that sky-iron pendant of his, either. How on earth will the bear friend of his know us?”

 

“…Here,” Grog says, reaching into the basket and pulling out Scanlan’s pack. “He’s got some kind of harp with really ugly carvin’ in here, I bet it’s a one of a kind.”

 

It takes a little rummaging, only because Vex dryly informs him that the first instrument-looking thing he pulls out is a violin and not a harp, but eventually they find a triangular bundle wrapped in sacking-cloth nestled near the bottom of the pack. It unwraps to reveal a small harp-like object that Vex declares to be a “lyre”, sized to be fit into the crook of one elbow, and carved up and down with elegant figures of a man (who looks suspiciously like Scanlan but somehow taller and with a more muscular figure) riding a stallion and brandishing a broadsword.

 

Vax comes over and squints at the design. “…Yeah, looks like commission work, all right,” he says dryly. “That of course assumes that the bear has seen this lyre before.”

 

Grog shrugs. “Better than nothin’.”

 

“Fair point.”

 

Deastok also isn’t a small city by any means, which means they spend a good amount of time walking around looking for places that might fit a creature of about bear-size for an extended period of time. They ask a couple of people where to find the armoured bear who lives in town, but none of them seem to be in the mood to talk to strangers, and between Vex’s curt tone, Grog’s scowl, and Percy and Vax’s silence, they don’t find many people willing to tell them much.

 

Of course, when they finally find the bear, it’s in a tavern. (Everything seems to happen to them in taverns, Grog muses. He’d found the twins in one, they’d gotten themselves kidnapped in another, they’d found Scanlan in _two_ , and then got chased away by the Conclave in one as well. Maybe taverns are just as magic as witches and the Consul guy.)

 

As it happens, they find him not because people are running away in fear, but because there is a set of large bear-sized pawprints imprinted in the soft ground, leading right into the front door of the tavern.

 

They duck into the warm building, and Grog freezes in astonishment. There’s a bear in iron armour, alright, but he’s lithe where Trinket is muscular and large. Next to him is a crude metallic structure that appears to be… writing something? Grog’s not sure how it operates without a human to power it, but he’s seeing it happen with his own two eyes.

 

The bear is also speaking to the crowd, telling a story, eyes alight like Scanlan’s when he was telling them tales to pass the time. Suddenly, Grog can see why he and Scanlan became friends, if this is indeed the bear they’re looking for.

 

“Let’s wait for him to be done,” Phillip says quietly, motioning with his snout to an empty table in the far corner. “One should never interrupt a storyteller.”

 

“…I thought the armoured bears were _warriors_ ,” Vex says faintly, but heads towards the table Phillip had indicated anyway. “This one’s telling people about a three-way bar fight between a goblin, a troll, and a fairy. _None of those things exist in this world_.”

 

Percy snorts. “I’ll tell the barkeep we’ll buy him a drink,” he says in lieu of replying. “Perhaps then he’ll be more inclined to speak with us.”

 

It’s another fifteen minutes or so before the story wraps up and the bear makes an elaborate bow, or as best a bow he can manage while standing on all fours. The barkeep hands him a large bowl of what Grog assumes is ale, and points in their direction. Soon enough, they hear heavy pawsteps followed by awkward metallic creaking, and look up to see an armoured bear coming towards them, his metal structure following along in a shambling manner.

 

“Doty, take this down,” the bear is saying as he comes within earshot. “As I turned to see the travellers who bought me a drink, I saw the most curious group of people. Their faces screamed weariness, but their clothing screamed adventure. What, I wondered, might be their secret? I strode over to find out.”

 

Next to him, Grog can hear what sounds like flesh smacking against flesh. Without turning back to make sure, he can only guess, but the accompanying groan makes him think Vex had just put her face into her hands.

 

“Hello,” says the bear, turning now to look at them. “My name is Taryon. I was told you were seeking me?”

 

~

 

_Pike is falling._

_It’s cold, cold, cold, and she’s falling faster, faster, faster, a drop with no end. She feels cold wind rush up around her, blowing her fine hair in and out of her face, stinging her eyes and her face and her hands._

_And then suddenly, there’s no wind. She’s not falling. She’s standing alone in some misty dreamscape, echoes of voices just too far away to hear coming from all directions._

_Where Seren should be, standing guard as a warm companion by her side, there is no daemon. “Seren!” she screams, feeling a surge of panic for the companion-of-her-heart._

_Seren, the mists echo back to her. And then, nothing._

_(Pike is alone.)_

 

~

 

The story the group tells Taryon is interesting, and he can tell they’ve edited out some details – too many plot-holes in an otherwise riveting story. Most of the story is told by the twin with the bear daemon, who doesn’t seem to have much of a sense for the theatrical, but she nonetheless manages to cover the key facts in a remarkably efficient manner.

 

They’re seeking the base of the Conclave’s operations, she tells him. They need assistance to find where the bears stay. Their friend, Scanlan Shorthalt, had instructed them to seek out Taryon in Deastok.

 

Their friend, Scanlan Shorthalt, had been attacked by cliff-ghasts on their way to Deastok, and had fallen many, many feet to his probably-inevitable death.

 

(His friend, Scanlan Shorthalt, is most likely dead.)

 

“Please,” says the male twin, and he holds a battered leather pack in his hands, pulls from it a familiar lyre. Taryon does not need to look at the carvings – he can recognise it by its ostentatious golden strings alone. Scanlan had gotten the lyre on a dare, egged on by Taryon to commission the most ridiculous music instrument he could find a craftsman to make for him willingly. It had taken them three towns and a very crude sketch, but they had eventually found a craftsman willing to engrave an embellished self-portrait of Scanlan on the narrow strip of canvas afforded by the slim wood of the lyre.

 

And here it lies, now, strings asleep in hands that do not know music.

 

Taryon suddenly realises that Doty has stopped writing, and that he has stayed silent for far too long, staring at the lyre.

 

“I will think on it,” he says eventually to the small group. “I… I need a little time, I think. Where are you staying?”

 

“The Starlight Inn,” says the white-haired man who’d been hanging around near the back, looking sober throughout the entire tale. There is a slight relaxing in his shoulders, as though in relief – perhaps he’d expected Taryon to just deny their request outright. “On the east edge of the town, closest to the aërodock.”

 

“I will meet you there tomorrow afternoon with my answer, then,” Taryon says, dipping his head to them in a clear dismissal and walking away, Doty’s clacking footsteps behind him.

 

“Doty,” he says quietly out of the corner of his mouth as they head back to the bar. “Take this down. After receiving this piece of unexpected news, I was in a daze. Eventually, I knew I would have to make the decision as to whether to help this curious band of travellers on their strange quest. But for now… I thought it might be best to reminisce lost friends over a good draft of ale.”

 

~

 

Scanlan wakes, again, to cold.

 

The night sky is still above him, a thousand sparkling stars like tiny pinpricks of light on a backdrop of black velvet, only partially visible from the entryway of the hole he and Aes had painstakingly dug into the snow. It’s colder now, without the sun, but never in his wildest dreams did Scanlan think it would be _this_ cold. He’s stretched out next to Pike, who’s still breathing faintly but has not stirred. She still gives out body heat, though, and at this point Scanlan’s just too cold to worry about propriety of any sort.

 

(Propriety isn’t something he usually worries about, anyway.)

 

He breathes out, the warm air leaving his mouth like a little cloud of smoke.

 

The air outside suddenly grows a little colder (if that was even possible). It’s slightly unsettling, and Scanlan shivers involuntarily. Aes stirs from where she’s curled at his clavicle for warmth.

 

“Something’s wrong,” she mumbles, half-awake but voice on edge. “Something feels weird about this cold.”

 

Scanlan looks out again at the little circle of night sky he can see from the little hole of snow he’s dug. The sky is cloudless, but he stares out for a moment, looking for what might be causing this unnatural cold, and-

 

 _There_.

 

There’s a little ripple in the sky, as though something transparent has moved past – he can still see the sky, but there is a faint outline of some _thing_ silhouetted against the faint moonlight, moving around outside.

 

(Moving _towards_ him?)

 

Suddenly, he feels a cold sensation in his chest as Aes gasps, a horrible wheeze that sounds like it’s been pulled from her throat against her will. Shining faintly in the moonlight, Scanlan can just make out a barely-there arm reaching out towards him. As it swipes through Aes, he feels his thoughts slow to a halt for a second, his mind going blank.

 

And then the hand continues through Aes, and towards his chest – only to recoil. Suddenly, as the arm leaves Scanlan’s vicinity, his thoughts come back to him all in a rush, and he gasps like a drowning man coming up for air.

 

“What was that?” whispers Aes right into his ear, trembling. “For a brief moment, I couldn’t feel you at all. I couldn’t feel anything.”

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Scanlan sees the strange disturbance in the air again. Now that he sort of knows what’s been bothering them, it’s easy to spot the strange transparent creature reaching for him. His hand flies, unbidden, to his chest, where the creature had recoiled from before, but his fingers grasp nothing but the rough weave of his clothes, and-

 

Something round and hard in his fist. “Taryon’s armour,” he whispers to himself. ( _Worth a try_ , he thinks.)

 

As the trembling arm reaches out for him again, Scanlan plunges his hand down his shirt and pulls out the rough pendant of sky-iron, clutching it tight and holding it out before him like a talisman. He squints his eyes shut and Aes crawls into his shirt, as though having an extra layer of cloth between her and the creature might help even in the slightest.

 

But his thoughts don’t blank again. He keeps holding out the sky-iron, and with his eyes closed his skin seems almost more sensitive to the cold air around him. Most likely because of that, he thinks, that he notices when the air goes from unsettlingly chilly to just cold.

 

He’s still clutching the sky-iron tight as he falls back into the alluring embrace of sleep.

 

The next morning, he is awakened by a crunch of heavy footfalls outside their makeshift snow-shelter. Feeling as though he hasn’t slept at all, Scanlan pokes his head out of the shelter, and jerks back almost immediately.

 

Staring right back at him, head quirked in what might either be polite amusement or utter boredom, is a large white bear in sleek sky-iron armour, black eyes gleaming like polished stones.

 

“Human,” rumbles the bear, a strange thick accent to its voice. “You are trespassing on _panserbjørne_ land.”

 

He can do nothing but stare. In his head, he remembers Taryon telling him all those months ago when they first met in Deastok: “ _Us bears, we can see through human deception. Nobody can lie to a bear. That’s why I left, in the end – no bear could appreciate my stories, seeing them as nothing more than pretty lies._ ”

 

But at the same time, the storyteller in Scanlan is itching to be let out, itching to add brocade and gilt to the plain and simple truth. So.

 

“We fell from a balloon as we were making our way across,” Scanlan says brazenly, like he’s not staring down a creature five times his size that looks hungry enough that it might eat him for breakfast. “We’re on our way to fulfill a prophecy, you know. There’s a great darkness that we’re chasing. Incidentally, a clue to the darkness might reside in or near your colony. So you see, you would be doing us a great service if you didn't kill us, and if you brought us with you. You’d be ridding the world of a foretold evil.”

 

There’s a long pause as the bear just stares at Scanlan, and he’s not entirely sure if the bear is actually thinking it through, or thinks that Scanlan’s just some drunk fool who somehow ended up lost in the tundra. The thing about talking to armoured bears is that they don’t know what the absolute truth – they just know if someone’s lying to them. If someone tells an armoured bear what they _believe_ to be the truth, nothing will seem suspicious to the bear.

 

(Of course, Scanlan’s still not fully sure that all the prophecy stuff is true – it might be that the twins and the Conclave are somehow running the world’s largest scam and Scanlan’s stumbled right into it, but there you have it.)

 

“Impudent young human,” says the bear eventually. “You are an interesting one.”

 

“That’s what Taryon said as well,” Scanlan replies without thinking, and sees the bear’s frame stiffen, just for a bit.

 

“Taryon?” he asks lightly. “That was the name of one of our pack-mates, once. Why do you speak his name?”

 

“Oh, you know,” Scanlan shrugs one shoulder, faux-casually. “Met him in Deastok, travelled around with him a bit, saved his life, you know how it is.” He’s flying by the seat of his pants right now, and Aes is gripping _hard_ to the skin at the side of his neck, a slight betrayal of his nerves.

 

“Saved his life?”

 

“Oh, yeah,” says Scanlan, reaching slowly down the neck of his shirt for the pendant of sky-iron. “He gave me a little gift to thank me as well, you know. Just a little trinket of sorts. It was really kind of him.”

 

The moment the pendant has been pulled out of his shirt and held aloft, the bear stalks forward until he is nearly snout-to-nose with Scanlan, lifting one wickedly sharp claw to bring the metal closer for inspection. Scanlan holds his breath, tries not to breathe in the slight rank smell of fish and old blood coming from the bear’s partially-open jaw.

 

“You should know better than to lie to bears, if you were friends with one before,” says the bear eventually, taking a step back. “You know the significance of the gift of sky-iron. That is why you showed it to me, is it not?”

 

Scanlan says nothing, and the bear snorts.

 

“What is your name, you human with a gilded tongue?”

 

“Scanlan,” he replies, without missing a beat.

 

“Hm. I am named Artagan, king of the Wildemount _panserbjørne_ ,” replies the bear with a slow dip of his head in acknowledgment. “You bear the mark of bear-kin, even if the bear who marked you is no longer of our colony. We will allow you to stay with us as you examine the human encampment that you seek on the edge of our territory, but no longer than that. Have we a deal, Scanlan Silvertongue?”

 

It’s an interesting nickname, but it sounds badass, so Scanlan doesn’t complain. Instead, he gestures into the snow-hole, where Pike is still lying on the ground, unconscious. “I have a friend who was thrown out of our balloon with me,” he says. “I will need her assistance to examine the encampment.”

 

Artagan ( _King_ Artagan?) peers past Scanlan into the snow-hole. “Your friend has no daemon,” he says. “I am sorry to tell you this, but she lives no more.”

 

“No,” says Scanlan firmly. “Her daemon was still in the basket when she fell. When I found her, she was still breathing, even though her daemon was not by her side. She’s coming with me, and when she wakes you can take both of us to see the encampment.”

 

The bear king eyes Scanlan for a long, long moment. Finally, he huffs a breath of warm air out from his nose, as though in resigned agreement. “Very well.”

 

~

 

The sunlight the next morning is bright, but not very warm, as though it were shining from behind several layers of glass. Vax and his sister spend the first few hours of the day sitting just outside their inn, soaking in what little heat they can get from the sun. It’s a rare idyllic moment in the strange hectic life that they’re living now, and he appreciates it a lot.

 

“Hey,” he says quietly to Vex, not wanting to speak too loudly for fear of breaking the tranquility of the moment. “What are we going to do, y’know, after?”

 

Vex turns to look at him, leaning on Trinket so she doesn’t fall over. “After?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

 

“Yeah, you know. When all this is done, do we go find a new job to take?”

 

Vex laughs. “You _do_ remember the large amount of gold that Scholar Allura promised us back in Emon College, don’t you?” she asks with a smile. “Our first order of business would be to pop by and claim that gold, naturally. It’s enough to live comfortably without taking jobs for maybe five years or so. Or we could buy a house, actually _stay_ somewhere that isn’t an inn or tavern, and still live comfortably for a good couple of years before we need to take on another job.”

 

Vax is quiet for a while. “Somehow,” he says slowly, trying to put what he’s feeling into words. “It feels a little empty, going back to how we were before. I’ve kind of gotten used to being in a larger group, now. Not that I’m sick of hanging out with you or anything, because you know I never will, but-”

 

“-It’s more interesting in a group?” Vex interrupts. “Yeah, no. I see what you mean.”

 

Nera badly stifles a laugh that sounds like a hacking caw, hiding her little raven face in Vax’s hair. “Of course you’d like it in a group,” she snarks. “We see you making eyes at Percival when you think he isn’t looking, you know.”

 

Vex straightens at that, gasps in mock outrage. “Why, you- Why can’t I just appreciate a fine specimen? A-and don’t think we haven’t seen you moping since Keyleth left either, you dummy.”

 

“That’s not going to go anywhere, don’t you worry,” replies Vax, with a little self-deprecating laugh. Keyleth’s lakeside almost-rejection still hurts a little to think about, a sting to both his pride and his heart. “She’s made it quite clear that she doesn’t want to fall in love with a human, I think.”

 

That seems to kill the teasing mood almost immediately, and they are both plunged into silent contemplation for about fifteen minutes or so, before the sound of approaching wingbeats becomes apparent. Vax looks up to see a group of about six large shapes following a slightly smaller one, flying in a V-shaped formation in the sky and headed straight for them.

 

At the head of the formation is a large, white albatross.

 

“Mynxi?” Vax asks, almost to himself, and gets to his feet. Vex looks up as he does and startles, jumping back against Trinket. Mynxi lands on the ground right in front of Vax, and he can see now – the six shapes following him are witches of varying ages and colours, all dressed in the same ragged green robes as Keyleth but without additional adornments.

 

“Vax’ildan,” says Mynxi, inclining his head. “We have returned with grave tidings.”

 

Vax pushes all thoughts of the last time he’d seen Mynxi, the conversation he’d just ended with his sister, out of his mind. Mynxi sounds grave, and the witch-contingent behind him are all grim-faced, tight grips on their branches. “Would you like to come inside the inn?” he asks. “Percy and Grog are inside, at the moment.”

 

“I will, thank you, and my sisters will guard the area,” Mynxi says, and at that the six witches nod like they’re taking orders from a military general, and take to the air again, some perching in trees nearby to keep an eye on the surroundings.

 

“…Okay,” says Vex faintly, watching the display. “Did the other witches always obey your commands like this?”

 

“Hard to disobey the Queen or her daemon,” says Mynxi, and Vax thinks he hears a touch of bitterness in the daemon’s voice. _Queen_ , he thinks, _-wait, that’s-_ , but before he can say anything Mynxi has continued on speaking. “Come. There is much to explain. Where are the other two – Pike and Scanlan? I notice you did not mention that they were in the inn.”

 

“Inside,” Vax says.

 

He leads Mynxi up to the room he’s been sharing with his sister, while Vex goes to call Grog and Percy. It’s a tight fit in the not-very-large room, but Mynxi perches on the windowsill and Trinket curls up in the doorway.

 

“Where are Pike and Scanlan?” Mynxi asks again, once they have all settled in.

 

Grog is silent, clearly not wishing to tell the story of his closest friend’s plummet from the sky once again. They had left Seren at the foot of Grog’s bed when they arrived at the inn, Phillip and Trinket having carefully carried him there, and Vax suspects that this reminder that Pike probably isn’t dead yet is the only thing preventing Grog from having a meltdown.

 

Vex, thankfully, takes up the role of storyteller once again, quickly narrating the chase from the Vesrah and their encounter with the cliff-ghasts. Mynxi’s avian face is not the easiest to read, but Vax gets a sense of grim understanding from the daemon as Vex finishes the story.

 

“It is as we feared,” he says, once Vex is done. “The darkness approaches, and the Conclave is twisting the Dust of the universe to suit their selfish needs. I do not know why the cliff-ghasts were sent to seek the Dust-child, but I am pretty sure that they were sent by someone from the Conclave.”

 

“Could they have been seeking me?” Vax asks, a thought that’s been weighing on his mind ever since the balloon flight. “The cliff-ghast said it was seeking the person with the most Dust. The last person to do Dust-measurements on any of us was back in Whitestone, and Ripley said that I had a much higher concentration of Dust than the rest.”

 

“It could be,” replies Mynxi, shrugging one wing. “Pike, however, as a reader of a truth-teller, may likely have eclipsed you once she began to read the alethiometer. It is a machine of Dust, and I do not doubt that its reader’s soul imprint would end up steeped in the same.”

 

That offers Vax no comfort at all, and he feels doubly guilty. Not only had he been too slow to prevent either Scanlan or Pike from being taken, the cliff-ghasts had never been seeking either of them in the first place, meaning that the two of them had been flung from the balloon for nothing.

 

Nera nips his ear. “It’s not your fault,” she hisses quietly. “Stop being so ready to shoulder the blame for everything.”

 

Mynxi, at this point, is continuing on with his story. “I received word from Keyleth not but three days ago. She was summoned back to Vesrah for a leaders’ summit, only to learn from Queen Uvenda that a hole has been ripped in the dimensional veil previously guarded by the _ashari_ of the Terrah.”

 

“…‘Previously’?” asks Percy, a slight furrow in his brow. Mynxi visibly droops, as though this had been a question he’d been expecting, but dreading to answer all the same.

 

“To open the veil requires a great release of Dust all at once, Queen Uvenda hypothesised,” he says quietly. “When she felt the disturbance in the universe and performed a scrying-spell, she saw numerous members of the Conclave all gathered in the midst of the Cliffkeep Mountains where the Terrah reside, holding numerous witches hostage. They were led by a woman named Raishan, who has killed several of our sisters before in seeking information on the veil between the worlds. As the sun sank below the horizon, all the witches were murdered at once, triggering a release of Dust great enough to tear open the veil. We suspect that there are few, if any, Terrah _ashari_ alive.”

 

“Are we too late, then?” Vax asks. “The prophecy said we had to prevent a darkness, and I know the Queen mentioned that a Whisper lived behind the veil. If it has already been freed, what do we do?”

 

“The veil holding back the Whisper has been torn, this is true; however, the Whisper is not yet at full strength. Some of our sisters from the Pyrah were sent ahead to stake out the damage done to the tear in the veil; they have reported that the Whisper is still, as far as they can tell, siphoning away the Dust in the area to feed itself. We believe that as long as it continues to take in Dust, it would still not have reached full strength, so it might be a while yet before all is lost. At present, perhaps our biggest worry is that the Conclave may try to tear open the veil in another place, to try and speed up the rate of Dust transfer.”

 

“How will we know whether they are trying to do that?”

 

“We don’t,” says Mynxi simply, giving another helpless wing-shrug

 

“We could ask-” Vex starts, but stops abruptly. _–the alethiometer_ , Vax knows she was about to say, by the stricken expression that appears on her face.

 

If Mynxi guesses what Vex might have wanted to say, he does not give any indication of it. Instead, it is one of the other Zephrah witches who clears her throat, looking a little nervous. “Um,” she says. “I do not know the members of the Conclave who had massacred our sisters, but I could scry on Terrah and see if they are still there. I was Vesrah, once, before I met my wife and married into the Zephrah, and I still know the scrying magics that the Vesrah taught me in my first decades of magical study.”

 

And so it transpires, half an hour later, Vex and Vax (Percy and Grog having disappeared back into the inn), and a half-circle of Zephrah witches, watch as one of their number finishes setting out a ritual-circle of small runic stones, lights a few sticks of incense, and hunches over a small bowl filled with clear water, a frown of concentration deep-set on her face. From his vantage point, Vax can see the moment when her pale blue eyes glaze over into a greyish-white film, almost like a cataract has come across both her eyes.

 

She pulls herself from the trance with a gasp not but five minutes later, shakes her head like a dog fresh out of the water. It is to Mynxi that she turns first. “I am unsure if to call it good news, but a woman matching Queen Uvenda’s description of Raishan of the Conclave remains in the Cliffkeep Mountains still, even as the bodies of our sisters of the Terrah lie cooling around her,” she says, voice shaking.

 

Mynxi leans forward, an interested lilt in his tone. “Did you manage to divine the reason for her staying there?”

 

“Only in snatches,” she says in return. “From what I can gather, there is a boon that the Whisper has promised to her, and she intends to wait until it has reached full strength in order to grant her this boon. So we should have a little while yet, I suspect.”

 

“Very well,” says Mynxi, with a brief nod. “We should all head towards the Cliffkeep Mountains posthaste, before the situation escalates any further.”

 

But Vax sees the worried frown on the witch’s face, like something has unsettled her but she does not know how to put it in words. “There’s something else that you saw during the spell,” he guesses, directing this directly to the witch. She startles, clearly not having expected his input, and turns to look at him.

 

“…There was something unusual I noticed,” she admits. She turns to Mynxi, and continues: “Who did you hear the description of Raishan of the Conclave from?”

 

“From Queen Uvenda, who scried it herself,” says Mynxi. “And also a brief description earlier on from Queen Cerkonos, though that was second-hand, information received from sisters of the Terrah who had escaped Raishan’s first cruel interrogation.”

 

There is a quiet as the witch twists her hands in her lap. “I suspected as much, when nobody mentioned the curious nature of the scars she bears.”

 

Vax sees Mynxi noticeably stiffen. “Scars as though ravaged by some disease, correct?”

 

The witch looks from Mynxi, and then to Vex and Vax, almost nervously. “As though by a curse, more accurately,” she says slowly, her gaze never shifting, and Vax gets the sense that this is another one of the _ashari_ secrets that outsiders aren’t supposed to know, rather like the ones that have already been told to their little group in pursuit of the prophecy.

 

Mynxi, apparently thinking along the same lines, says: “Speak your mind. They can be trusted.”

 

“There is a curse only known to the clans of the north and the east,” says the witch. “A magic born of a melding between the war magics of the Pyrah, and a twisting of the healing magics of the Zephrah. Once cast, it shows itself on its victim like a twisting tongue of black flame on the skin, winding and winding around until its work is done.”

 

“You speak of the death-curse,” says Mynxi. Vax, for his part, is floored at the implications of that statement – he’d known, of course, that the magic of the witches could do many things, but a curse that brought _death_ somehow hadn’t been in his realm of expectation.

 

“Her skin bears long-healed burns in the twisting shape of ghostly tongues of flame. Somehow, she must have tangled with a witch in her past, a witch with a vendetta, and survived.”

 

“Interesting,” says Vex, participating for the first time in the conversation now. “That might explain her motive.”

 

“Not her depth of knowledge, though,” says Mynxi, shaking his head. “But it does make her a more dangerous adversary.”

 

~

 

There’s something about a witch’s daemon dropping out of the sky to deliver bad news that gives you a turn to the stomach, Grog thinks. As one of the witches volunteers to cast some kind of spell, he and Percy both back into the inn. Percy says he’s going to pack, perhaps tidy up the balloon if they need to start flying somewhere, but Grog just heads back up to where he knows Seren is sleeping at the foot of his bed.

 

Except, as he enters, Seren is no longer motionless, but blinking awake and looking confused.

 

“Grog,” he says, as Grog pauses in the doorway, stunned and breathless with relief at seeing one of his oldest friends moving (and _alive_!) and speaking. He feels a brush of fur as Phillip pushes past his legs, almost bounding up to Seren and eagerly pressing their snouts together.

 

“We were so worried,” says Phillip. “When Pike- When you started-”

 

“It was the worst thing we have probably ever felt,” Seren says, shuddering a little. “I can still feel her, though. It gives me a little comfort, even though she feels incredibly far away.”

 

“We thought we’d lost you,” says Grog quietly, coming in now to sit on the floor next to Phillip.

 

“Never,” says Seren firmly. “It’s four of us till the end, remember? We promised.”

 

(And Grog remembers, remembers a night not long after Pike had found him. They’d been lying out on the deck of Willhand’s boat looking up at the stars, half-joking about setting out on an adventure of their own. “You’ll be all strong and famous and leave me behind,” Pike had laughed, comparing her tiny hands to his, which even at a younger age were large and calloused from handling his sword.

 

“Never,” he’d said. “It’s you an’ me an’ Phillip an’ Seren, Pike. Always.”

 

Pike had laughed, shuffled over to rest her head on his shoulder. “Best friends forever,” she’d said, and Grog’s heart had grown warm with still-unfamiliar fondness.)

 

“We’ve got to find Pike,” he says now. “She’s probably still somewhere near the bears. They’ll prob’ly know where to find her. We’ve got to go.”

 

“What’s the rush?” asks Seren, but he’s getting to his paws as well.

 

“Mynxi, the witch Keyleth’s daemon, came by with really bad news,” says Phillip. “Some really bad shit is going down somewhere in the west, and I don’t know if they’re going to insist we head straight over.”

 

“We did ask that bear to come show us the way, though,” Grog points out. “Tar- Tarro- Tar-something.”

 

“Taryon,” says Phillip amused. “He did say he would drop by in the afternoon. We should head down, in any event.”

 

And indeed, when they head down, it’s to Mynxi and the other witch packing up the bits of the spell they’d cast, and a very worried-looking Vax and Vex. Grog walks right up to the both of them. “Has the bear come by?” he asks. “We need to go find the place where they live.”

 

“No,” says Vax, brows creasing, “not yet. What’s the hurry, big man? We know where the Conclave are now, and they’re not anywhere near the bears. They’re in the west.”

 

But Vex’s eyes have slid past Grog, and she gasps, eyes turning a little watery. “Seren,” she whispers softly, and Grog knows that Phillip is nudging the badger forward into the soft sunlight.

 

“Pike’s still out there,” Grog says to Vax. “I’m not leavin’ without her. I know the witches said that some shit is goin’ down soon, so if you need to leave first to take care of prophecy stuff, I understand. But I’m goin’ to find those bears, and get their help to look for Pike.”

 

Vax blinks at him, stunned for a second, and out of the corner Grog can see Percy slipping out the front door of the inn with a neat pack slung over his shoulder, eyeing what's happening out on the front garden with great interest.

 

“Er,” says a voice from behind them at the same moment. “Is this a good time?”

 

It’s a vaguely familiar voice, and Grog turns to see Taryon, the storytelling armoured bear, standing there looking about as awkward as a bear can look. His mechanical construct is also there, a pack somehow slung on its back, and still busily taking notes in a notebook.

 

“I had a good long evening to think about it,” says the bear, “and I’ve decided that, should you still wish to, I can guide you to the _panserbjørne_ colony, though no further than that. I owe Scanlan a life debt, and helping his friends would go some way to paying back that debt.”

 

Vax looks torn now. The white albatross-daemon, still sitting on the ground by Vax’s feet, gets up and shakes out his feathers. “How far is the bear colony from here?” he asks crisply.

 

“Less than two days on foot, probably,” says Taryon. “Sorry, who are you…?”

 

But Mynxi does not answer, instead turning back to Vax. “We still have a bit of time, though I know not how much,” he says. “Pike and the alethiometer have a part to play in this as well, and if you need to go into the tundra of Wildemount to seek her then we shall accompany you. Keyleth is still making her way up from the south, and I will inform her to meet us straight at the Cliffkeep Mountains.”

 

“That sounds like a good plan,” Percy says, coming up from behind and cutting in before Vax can answer. “I suspect that if we can rent some sort of dog-sled, we might be faster than walking in the snow by foot, too.”

 

Grog quickly throws in his agreement, much to Phillip’s amusement, and Seren casts his vote as Pike’s proxy. In short order, it is agreed that they will obtain a dog-sled within the hour, and meet with Taryon and Mynxi and the witches at the gates of Deastok.

 

Except, it doesn’t go that smoothly. (It _never_ goes that smoothly.)

 

On the way back past the inn, having obtained a few sleds and a cavalcade of furry huskies to pull the sleds, Grog notices two figures walking out onto the path ahead of them. One is a large muscular silhouette; the other a slimmer one in a long coat.

 

There is a monkey on her shoulder.

 

Grog draws up short immediately, and Percy bumps into him from behind. “Grog, what-” Percy stops short as he catches sight of the two in front of him, and he hisses sharply through clenched teeth.

 

Out of the bushes and trees drop other men and women in plain attire, the symbol of a snake eating its own tail stitched on their cloaks. Within seconds, they are surrounded. The two figures have approached, and now at this closer distance Grog can recognise them both: The taller one is the Councillor who had recognised and chased them in Ank’Harel; the shorter one is the researcher who had bargained for her safety with Vax’s life back in the laboratory in Whitestone so many days ago.

 

“Well,” the woman ( _Ripley_ , he remembers) says, a slow grin spreading across her face. “Percival, dear, you are depressingly easy to track, after all – that ridiculous balloon of yours is _very_ conspicuous. Also, I daresay Councillor Raishan’s cliff-ghasts did not do their job well, after all. My Dust-child is still here, alive and well. I guess I shall take my payment into my own hands, hm?” This last part is said to the black-haired Councillor, who stands stiff with a deeply-etched scowl.

 

“Do what you like, woman,” he growls. “I have no interest in your little experiments. The rest are mine.”

 

But only one thing has registered in Grog’s mind, and he turns to the woman. “ _You_ sent those cliff-ghasts?” he asks. Beside him, Phillip picks up on his slow-mounting fury, and begins to growl and bare his teeth. He can hear the faint _click_ of Percy readying his gun and Vex nocking an arrow in her crossbow, the faint sibilant _shink_ which means Vax is pulling out his knives. He rests a hand on the hilt of his sword, and waits for the answer.

 

“Technically, it was Councillor Raishan who dispatched them,” says Ripley, her smile never wavering. “But at my request. Why are you upset? Clearly they failed at their job.”

 

Grog remembers the look on Pike’s face as she was gripped in the claws of the cliff-ghast, the freezing of his heart as he watched her fall. He knows he’s not part of the fancy prophecy like Vax and Pike are, but that’s not going to stop him from stamping out the little bit of darkness that had almost, _almost_ , killed his best friend.

 

“Die in a ditch,” he snarls, unsheathes his sword, and charges.

 

~

 

The black-haired man with Ripley steps forward to intercept Grog’s mad charge, and there is a _clang_ of metal against metal. Out of the corner of his eye, Percy can see people of the city looking frightened, or retreating into their homes at the sight of such violence, but he pays them no mind. Anna Ripley is standing in front of him, blatantly hinting that she wants to take Vax back for more experiments, and he can hear nothing but the beating of his heart, staccato-quick.

 

Dimly, he is aware of the twins starting to try and take out the Conclave members surrounding them, but he only has eyes for Ripley, still standing a little ways off from the fracas between Grog and the other swordsman, an amused smile playing on her lips and a small pistol twirling in her hand. It’s the same little smile he’s seen her wear in the laboratory, when peering over experiment results that didn’t go the way she’d wanted it to, but had turned out interesting nonetheless.

 

Involuntarily, Percy shudders a little at the memory.

 

He sees her aiming her pistol at Vex’s calf while she’s distracted, and shakes himself out of his stupor. There’s a sharp _crack_ , and her own shot goes wide as his bullet skims her hand as a warning shot and she scowls, blood now slowly beginning to ooze from the abrasion on the back of her hand.

 

“Now, now, Percival,” she says, and though her voice is not raised in the slightest he can hear it perfectly clearly. “Let’s not be hasty. There are twenty of us, after all, and only four of you.”

 

The golden monkey-daemon on her shoulder is smirking, and for a moment Percy sees red, until Vesper pushes her wet nose into her palm, whispers: _calm_.

 

“You said you would leave us alone, Ripley,” he calls instead, lifting his own gun to take aim at her. “Breaking your word? I do clearly remember threatening dismemberment if you did.”

 

Ripley grins, and fires another shot, this one aimed at Vax’s unprotected back. “Vax, _down_ ,” Percy roars, knowing that the other man’s back has only just fully healed from their last encounter with Ripley, knowing that this will only undo days of Keyleth’s hard work.

 

Perhaps through a mixture of fortitude and Vax being so surprised that he obeys the command without question, Percy watches as Vax ducks and slides between the legs of the Conclave member he’s engaging in combat, and the bullet flies into the stomach of the Conclave member instead.

 

He hears Ripley snarl.

 

“I never promised to leave you alone, dear Percival,” she says, voice still pleasant but trembling now, like she’s hanging on to the ragged ends of her temper by the tips of her fingers. “I only promised to let you leave Whitestone unmolested, and I have indeed kept my word, don’t you think? The Dust-child stands here, good as new.”

 

Percy takes aim at her shoulder and fires, but in the same instant she shifts her footing a little to the left and the bullet only grazes her skin, again. “You’re going to take him to do sick experiments on him,” he says. “Is that not the same thing?”

 

“Well,” Ripley grins, “the last subjects I tested the guillotine on did not survive, but I have a theory I’d like to test out that would require your friend the Dust-child. You see, if someone has higher levels of Dust-”

 

“Save it,” snaps Percy. He holds down the trigger, fires the remaining four bullets in his revolver at Ripley. She’s quick, but not quick enough to dodge four bullets fired in quick succession, and Percy watches with a grim satisfaction as one hits her in the arm, two in the leg, and one in the shoulder.

 

Suddenly, two roars break out from two separate ends of the impromptu battlefield. On one end, Percy sees Grog knock the sword from the Conclave member’s hand, before stabbing his blade through the other man’s stomach, smooth as butter. From the other, he hears thundering footsteps, and turns to see a massive armoured bear running up and taking a swipe at the nearest Conclave goon, behind him a group of witches on branches of cloud-pine with bows out and nocked.

 

Almost in a quick moment before Percy’s eyes, most of the Conclave members forming the ring around them are felled, either killed or knocked unconscious by a mixture of claw-marks, knife-slashes, and ever so many arrows.

 

Ripley, however, remains where she’d stood when Percy had shot her, now down on one knee and breathing a little unsteadily as she watches the odds abruptly even themselves on the battlefield. She looks up as he approaches, pistol raised in hand with a snarl, though her trigger finger trembles a little.

 

 _Crack_. Her hand jerks, and she’s clearly not used to the recoil when she’s down on a knee instead of braced with two feet on the ground, because the bullet goes wide. The moment he gets within reach of her, he lashes out a foot and kicks the gun from her hand, watches it skid across the road and a ways away from her.

 

“You know,” he says quietly. “If you’d just laid low, lived out the rest of your life quietly, this never would have happened. But I will not let you conduct experiments on people any more. Nobody should have to suffer like I did.”

 

“Dear Percival,” says Ripley, looking up at him. “It was temporary suffering for the greater good, you must know. We were only seeking peace.”

 

“Oh, shut up.”

 

Vesper prowls forward to the monkey-daemon now lying on the ground, and pushes her paw onto its chest. In the same moment, Percy raises his gun fluidly to rest the barrel against Ripley’s forehead. “Goodbye,” he says. “May your sick experiments die with you.”

 

He pulls the trigger.

 

~

 

The air suddenly goes quiet, and Vex is newly aware of how they must look, four unkempt travellers ruthlessly killing a whole bunch of cloaked people in the middle of the street. Her crossbow is still out, carefully strapped to her arm, even as Taryon walks forward, looking a little disdainful of the blood on his claws.

 

“You were late,” he offers, as if by way of explanation, and she weakly laughs.

 

“We were held up,” she says wryly in return.

 

She turns to take in the scattered field now. Vax, bless his soul, had the foresight to use a dagger and pin the ends of the leashes on the sled-dogs they had rented to the ground, and there’s about 10 or so huskies in the centre of the ring looking about as spooked as a dog can look. Vex tries not to think about what might have happened if the dogs had run off instead – she’s in no mood to try and bargain for a second set.

 

Grog is carefully wiping the blood off his sword onto the clothes of the black-haired man from the Conclave, looking rather at ease despite the huge gut wound that he must have dealt not but minutes ago. Abruptly, Vex is reminded that the tattoos on Grog’s bald head and down his back are not just decorative, but tribal tattoos from the nomadic Tartars who roam the north and are infamous for their violent ways. She’d never really seen Grog as a Tartar before, and usually he can come across as a Gyptian in mannerisms if one ignores his size and markings and massive sword, but today Vex thinks she understands.

 

The body of Anna Ripley, the woman who had nearly killed her brother before, is crumpled in a heap just past Grog. Vex stalks over to try and get in one last shot, but as she pulls up to the side of the body she realises that the other woman is already dead, and Percy is kneeling by her side, staring blankly at the neat bullet-hole in the centre of her forehead, and the spray of blood behind that on the ground.

 

She places a hand on Percy’s shoulder. He does not react, and she can see a cold sweat beading down his face.

 

Vesper, too, does not seem responsive, leaning against Percy’s leg. Vex can feel as Trinket carefully maneuvers his way up behind her, navigating his bulky body through the bodies strewn all over the ground. He bends down, and gives the side of Vesper’s head a rough lick.

 

Simultaneously, Percy and Vesper gasp aloud with a jerk, and Vesper shakes her head like she’s trying to clear it of something.

 

“Percy, darling,” Vex murmurs, squeezing his shoulder slightly. “Are you quite alright?”

 

Still, he does not reply. Vex looks at his sightless eyes, trembling frame, and remembers a time when she was equally shaken long ago, the press of a man’s hand to her throat, a rough voice growling in her ear: _oh sweet, broken Vex’halia_ , hot breath on her face and a bruising grip on her breasts.

 

(She’d tried to forget, once, and it had been hard – she’d be strong and confident, but then she’d walk by the alley where he’d cornered her, or she’d catch a whiff of the same perfume he used, or she’d see another man with a polecat-daemon slinking in his footsteps, and suddenly she’d be back on that moonless night, a man on top of her and no way to flee.

 

There is no forgetting, no forgiving, she knows, not with something that has scarred your life so deeply that you feel the aftershocks long after the day is gone. There is only acceptance, and healing. But it is a long process. She knows.)

 

She has no warm blanket to throw over Percy’s shoulders like Vax used to do for her, but she takes her furs off, refusing to shiver at the cold, and drapes the thick brown cloak over Percy, pulling the ends close together at his chest. Trinket gives Vesper two more licks and settles down, pressing his large warm bulk by her side.

 

“Percival,” she tries again, reaching for her flask of water and pouring a little out into the metal cap of it, holding it to his lips. It is not the hot chocolatl that Vax used to make on days she had felt particularly bad, but they’re on the road with scant resources so this will have to do. “Can you hear me?”

 

This time, he blinks twice, hard, and his eyes clear a little. “Vex,” he says, voice rough.

 

“Have a little water, Percy,” she says, and squeezes his shoulder again. “You know who I am. Do you know where we are?”

 

He takes the capful of water, and a second, and a third. “Whitestone?” he rasps. “No. Somewhere else north. A bear – we were looking for a bear. Deastok. Ripley-”

 

He jerks, a little of the water sloshing around in his grip and splashing to the ground. Vex keeps a firm grip on his shoulder, says: “She has been taken care of. We’re leaving, Percy. We’re going to head out to find the armoured bears. Do you remember?”

 

He lets out a heavy breath, and his free hand curls into the soft fur cloak that she’d draped over him. “Yes,” he says quietly. She leans down, reaches out a hand to help him up, and he takes it after a pause. “Yes,” he says.

 

She closes her fingers over his, and leads him back to where the rest are waiting.

 

~

 

Pike wakes on their second day in the bears’ kingdom.

 

Artagan had explained to Scanlan on the walk over that the armoured bears do not get many visitors on the human variety, and that they themselves usually sleep out in the open. The closest thing they have to habitable residences for humans is an old prison-building on the western edge of the territory, a leftover from two kings prior and which has been left empty for some time. Artagan places both of them in the cell closest to the door, which also happens to have a small window cut out near the ceiling. It is dusty and dank, but the bears leave the door hanging open and the cold wind blows in ever so often, chasing away the smell and leaving in its wake the fresh sharp scent of winter mornings.

 

The bears also do not eat meat the human way. Scanlan finds _this_ out when, as the sun begins to set on their first day, a young bear-cub is summoned to fetch him to the centre, where the bears are crowding around a pile of freshly-killed seals, settling down to their meal.

 

On the side, there is a small fire that one of the bears has (somehow) set alight, and a side of seal meat, roughly cut up with claws into large chunks. It is, oddly, a much higher level of hospitality than Scanlan was expecting, and his hand goes unbidden to the circle of sky-iron around his neck again, wonders if Taryon knew the significance of the gift he had given once upon a time.

 

The young bear who brings him to dinner is named Trish, and she spends the meal sniffing inquisitively at Aes. “Is it true that humans have their soul on the outside?” she asks, ignoring her mother’s hiss of _that’s rude, dear_. Aes snorts and sniffs right back.

 

“Technically,” she says, and Scanlan can feel her pleasure when the bear squeaks in surprise and scrabbles back a little, “do the bears not wear their souls on the outside as well? It is your armour, is it not?”

 

She giggles. “You’re interesting,” she says. “I’ve never met a human before.”

 

“Clearly,” mutters Aes under her breath, but Trish (thankfully) does not hear her.

 

It is now the second day, and Scanlan’s sitting on a rickety stool one of the bears had scavenged from somewhere and placed into the cell, staring out the window and hands itching for his lyre, when he hears a groan coming from the corner of the cell where he’d placed Pike’s sleeping body on a pile of ancient-looking furs.

 

He spins, nearly unbalancing the stool, and his heart skips as he realises that Pike’s eyes are blinking open.

 

“I feel awful,” she mutters, voice raspy with disuse. Thankfully, the wound on her head had stopped bleeding the night before, when Artagan had produced some curious-looking moss and pressed it to the wound to stem the bloodflow. “Where are we?”

 

She feels around with one hand, and suddenly sits right up with a gasp. “Seren,” she says. “Where is he?”

 

“Pike,” says Scanlan, relieved. “We’re with the armoured bears in their kingdom. Seren…”

 

He trails off, not sure how to tactfully say _your daemon was in the basket and you weren’t, so he’s probably miles away_. But Pike seems to get the message, anyway, because she curls in on herself a little with a heavy sigh. “I thought it was just a dream, that I couldn’t feel him,” she says. “But he still seems far away, as though he’s on the other side of some kind of glass, and I can’t get to him even though I know he’s there.”

 

He’s not sure what to say to that, so instead he hops off the stool and goes to the pile of furs, sitting down next to her and leaning a little on her shoulder to provide her some warmth. He’s a poor substitute for a badger, certainly, but he figures even a little bit might help.

 

“I struck a bargain with the bear-king,” he says, for the lack of anything better to say. “He said when you wake up, he’ll take us to see the Conclave’s base of operations, but after that he wants us to leave. Do we know what we’re looking for when we get there?”

 

“…No,” concedes Pike. “Oh! But I could ask the-”

 

She cuts off and reaches down, sighing in relief as she pulls out a large pouch hanging around her neck by a thick leather cord. Inside, she pulls out something that looks like a large pocketwatch, made of gold and with pictures instead of numbers. “It’s still here,” she says, with a small smile. “The truth-teller.”

 

Scanlan leans over to watch as she reaches down to turn the three dials around the face of the truth-teller. A couple of times, she worries over which symbol she should make the short hands point at, and he hears her mutter _this would be easier if Seren were here_. But eventually, the three hands of the truth-teller point at etchings of a sword, a bee, and a tree, and the fourth, longer, hand begins to swing erratically.

 

Pike’s eyes go unfocused for a long while. Just as Scanlan is about to put a hand on her shoulder and ask if everything’s okay, she jerks with a small gasp and turns to him, eyes clear. “It says we don’t need to go there,” she says, looking a little confused. “That what we were looking for has already been found. It says a friend is coming soon, to guide us. And it keeps saying something I don’t understand, but it’s swinging rather insistently between the bird and the sword and not telling me what it means.”

 

“Well,” says Scanlan reasonably. “What do the symbols mean, individually?”

 

“A lot of different things,” says Pike. “I’ve used the bird before to refer to Vax, because his Nera is a bird, but it doesn’t have to mean Vax in this context… it’s strange. Sometimes the alethiometer speaks in riddles, but this is just frustrating.”

 

Scanlan’s about to give a witty reply to that, when a shadow falls across the open door, and Trish pokes her head in, looking a lot less inquisitive and a lot more nervous than the day before. “Interesting human man,” she says. “The King calls for you. He has a visitor, and says that you are needed.”

 

Pike looks a little confused by this bear she hasn’t met before, but Scanlan extends a hand down to pull her to her feet. “I’m sure whatever it is, you’ll be involved as well,” he says. “In any event, you haven’t met the bear-king yet. His name’s Artagan, he’s kind of cool.”

 

She eyes his hand for a bit but accepts it, her palm rough and calloused in his. She’s a little pale and thin from not having eaten for the past few days, so Scanlan swings the topmost cloak off his many layers and wraps it around her shoulders. “There,” he says, and quickly turns before she can try to give it back.

 

Trish is pacing a little impatiently outside, and eyes Pike curiously as she steps out the doorway. “Who’s this?” she asks curiously. “Is she human? She doesn’t have her soul outside like you.”

 

Pike, seeming to take this in her stride, says: “I am human, but my daemon is far away at the moment.”

 

“Oh!” Trish says. “Like a witch-lady.”

 

This gives Scanlan and Pike pause because, well, they’re not sure what the ramifications of Pike being forcibly separated from Seren in such a short period of time are, and it hadn’t occurred to him that perhaps Pike and Seren might end up like the witches and their daemons.

 

“How do you know about witches?” he asks instead, as Trish begins to lead them back to the centre, where he’d taken his dinner the night before. “I thought the bears ended their formal alliance with the witches a while back.”

 

(Another gift from Taryon to him – endless little morsels of trivia about the armoured bears, most of which he is sure he will never need to use in his life. This tidbit, he knows because it was a witch who had enchanted Taryon’s scribe automaton for him, and he’d told Scanlan about how the thought of witch-magic spiriting a bear away from his colony had caused the formal alliance to lapse.)

 

Trish laughs. “The visitor to the King is a witch, silly! Didn’t you see them fly overhead?”

 

Scanlan exchanges a glance with Pike. The only witch he knows is Keyleth, and it’s a little comforting to think that she might have found them, tracked them down somehow, and is here to return them to the rest of the group. “The alethiometer did say a friend was coming,” Pike whispers, and there’s a glint of curiosity and excitement in her eyes.

 

They reach the centre soon enough, and it’s easy to make out the hulking form of Artagan, slightly larger and more well-built than the other bears, with a rough crown of twisted sky-iron resting atop his head. Standing beside him is a sturdy-looking figure, too small and with the wrong proportions to be a bear. As they draw closer, Scanlan realises that the figure is a woman, well-muscled and dressed in deep red robes with a ragged hem, clutching a pine-branch that looks similar to the one Keyleth uses to fly.

 

Pike inhales sharply, beside him. “That’s one of the witch Queens,” she says softly. “She’s the first one who told us about the prophecy. What is she doing here?”

 

Artagan looks up as they approach. “Scanlan Silvertongue,” he rumbles. “And I see that your companion has awoken as well.”

 

“Hi,” says Scanlan. “Yes. This is Pike.”

 

“You told me before of some darkness that threatens to take over your society,” continues Artagan, as though Scanlan hadn’t spoken. “I recall that it was this darkness that underscored your need to examine the human encampment near our territory. My visitor today bears some news about an approaching darkness, and I thought it might be best to have you listen to it as well. This is Cerkonos, Queen of the Pyrah witch-clan.”

 

The witch, Cerkonos, turns and looks Scanlan up and down, and he wonders what she’s trying to discern from his rumpled appearance. Finally, she speaks, in a voice deeper than he was expecting: “Miss Pike I have met briefly before, though the one you call Silvertongue is unknown to me. Nevertheless, if you think they need to listen to this news as well, I defer to your judgment, King Artagan.”

 

She turns back to Artagan. “To put it briefly, the veil between the worlds has been torn apart, and an ancient darkness once sealed away has been slowly awakening in the skies above the Cliffkeep Mountains. The Conclave had massacred one of my sister-tribes to achieve this goal, and even as we speak the rest of the _ashari_ move to defend this act of war. I have come as Queen of one of the four _ashari_ tribes to seek assistance from the _panserbjørne_ , a revival of our old alliance.”

 

“What do bears have to gain or lose in a war between humans?” asks Artagan, examining one of his claws.

 

“The Conclave commands not just their human fighters, but also strange new creatures, almost invisible, that appear to prey on daemons. We have taken to calling them ‘Spectres’, and on the flight here, I lost two of my guard to those beasts,” replies Cerkonos. “The darkness that has been born feasts not just on daemons, not just on humans, but on the Dust of this world, the same Dust that has allowed your bears to create and innovate, to work miracles with metal. It poses a threat to life as all of us know it to be.”

 

As Cerkonos mentions invisible beasts, Scanlan remembers the night in the snow-hole, the chilling coldness around his heart, and pushes down an involuntary shudder at the memory.

 

The bear-king appears to consider this for a bit, but does not look to be convinced (at least, to Scanlan – though he is not an expert in the facial expressions of a bear). “Humans, we can deal with,” he says. “Daemon-eaters do not threaten us, for we have no daemon. Your siphoning darkness is rooted to one spot in the sky like a cub suckling from its mother. I see no threat to my bears.”

 

“Except it won’t stay rooted to the sky forever, King Artagan. It will move, mark my words.”

 

It’s like watching a person bounce a ball off a brick wall over and over again, failing to break a hole through it but trying again anew each time with waning strength. Scanlan considers what he knows from the conversation so far, and clears his throat.

 

“A compromise, perhaps,” he says, and tries not to let his voice waver when the twin piercing gazes of Artagan and Cerkonos turn onto him. “The invisible soul-eating things are afraid of sky-iron – I saw it with my own eyes, when one of them tried to attack me not but a couple of days ago, only to be driven away by the sky-iron I carry with me. If the fighters can be protected from the influence of this invisible creature, such as through sky-iron shields or armour, that would reduce the number of potential enemies attacking them at once.”

 

Artagan swings his head over to eye Scanlan beadily, and he hastens to add: “Not to mention, if you can help us, it would probably save you or your bears a trip down to the human encampment.”

 

There is a long, long pause, and in the silence Scanlan begins to wonder if he’s misinterpreted something, made the wrong call by speaking up. But then Artagan sighs, shakes his head. “You make an interesting bargain, Silvertongue,” he says. “I cannot make you the armour you seek, for it will taken many weeks. However… I could perhaps fashion something for you before tomorrow. If the witch is satisfied with this arrangement, that is.”

 

Scanlan jumps, and looks over to the witch standing there, wondering if he’s overstepped his bounds, or presented an exchange of lower value than what she’d wanted. But she quirks a small smile and nods her head at him, arms still crossed. “On the morrow, then,” she says, and Scanlan wonders if she’d even expected the bears to agree in the first place.

 

“Alright,” says Artagan. “Silvertongue, give me your sky-iron token.”

 

Scanlan blinks. “Why do you need it?” he asks, even as he pulls it out from where it hangs against his sternum.

 

“Why,” says Artagan, reaching out to grab the token – and it is _tiny_ in the bear’s massive paws – and accepting the token from Scanlan. “To make you a Spectre-killing blade.”

 

~

 

When Vex eventually manages to get Percy to move away from the limp body of Anna Ripley, Vax steps forward, out of some morbid desire to look into the face of the one who had been hunting him. She is dead now, no daemon by her side, and only a neat hole through the centre of her forehead to show for it. As he walks up, something catches his foot and he stumbles – there, previously hidden by Percy’s slumped form, is a leather satchel that Ripley had been carrying, a strange tube-like object slightly sticking out of it.

 

“She’s dead,” says Nera, into his ear. “She won’t miss it, and it looks interesting.”

 

It’s almost like the old days, way before he and Vex became mercenaries, with Nera hissing into his ear about people who could afford to lose a bauble or two. She’d preferred being a magpie then, all the better for spotting interesting shiny objects with, and though her feathers are pure black she retains something of the magpie’s mindset with her. So, casually, Vax crouches down and swipes for the tube, and it disappears from his hands and into his pack, almost like magic. He’ll have a look at it later.

 

Now, however, Taryon is watching them slowly load themselves onto the sled they’d rented from a large store near the centre of Deastok, his restless paws betraying his impatience. Vax understands – they’ve basically just killed almost twenty people in broad daylight, even if those people are all from the Conclave, and it’s probably best to go before they’re prevented from leaving.

 

Soon enough, they’re off, Vax squeezing with his sister on one dog-drawn sled, Percy and Seren in another, and Grog in the last. Grog perhaps looks the most at home as they leave the city and head into the wild tundra – he’s got less furs on than everyone else, and handles the reins of the huskies with an ease that belies years of practice.

 

(Briefly, Vax remembers that Tartars live in the north all their lives, and thinks that you can take a Tartar away from the north, but you might not be able to take the north out of the Tartar.)

 

On the first day, they’ve stopped to camp and make a small fire, when he remembers the strange tube-like object now. As the witches flit about to set up perimeter wards around their campsite, and Taryon settles down by the campfire to narrate the day’s journey to his strange self-powered automaton, Vax pulls the tube out of his bag to inspect it in the wavering firelight.

 

It’s a curious wooden tube, somewhat resembling the trunks of the bamboo trees he and Vex had seen once in a journey to the easternmost end of the continent. The diameter on the ends is wide enough for him to look through the tube, and at one end of it there are two slim sheets of a strange orange mineral, tied together.

 

Vax had seen once, back in Syngorn College, a sample of an insect trapped in electrum. It had been displayed in a glass case in his father’s study, but when the setting sun streamed in through Syldor’s windows and hit the electrum it had almost glowed like a honey-coloured gem. Holding the tube to the firelight now, and watching it strike the small sheets of mineral, they begin to glow a soft gold, and Vax wonders if maybe these sheets had been made from electrum, somehow hammered thin and stretched out, circles cut out from a slim windowpane.

 

“What’s that?”

 

Vax startles, having been too absorbed in his examination of the tube that he hadn’t noticed Vex sneaking up on him.

 

“Found it in Ripley’s bag,” he says, offering it to her. She takes it in her hand for a look, and peers into one end of the tube.

 

“Looks like some sort of spy-glass,” she says, squinting out at the dark edges of the tundra. Still with the tube placed at her right eye, and the left eye squinted closed, she turns back towards him, and gasps, dropping the tube.

 

“You’re glowing,” she says, sounding stunned, and he blinks.

 

“I’m… what?”

 

“Here,” she says, and hands him the tube. “Look through it and then at yourself.”

 

Bemused, he takes the tube. By now, they’ve attracted quite a bit of attention, and Mynxi has waddled over curiously, Percy on his heels. Vax clears his throat awkwardly and places the tube to his eye, then looks down at his hand.

 

Or, what he _knows_ is his hand, but shows up through the tube as a little glowing nebula of dancing golden particles. He looks up, tube still at his eye, and realises that Vex is directly in front of him, her silhouette dimly outlined by a small scattering of those same golden particles, and Trinket an even larger outlined shape behind her. The light in Vex’s outline is somewhat dimmer than his own, and he looks down at his hand again to make sure he’s not seeing things.

 

He looks around, still peering through the spy-glass. The sun has set by now, a chill overtaking them on the dark tundra, and Vax knows the only source of light is the campfire they’ve built. But somehow, as he peers through the electrum lens of the spy-glass, there’s light all around. Taryon’s hulking form is outlined faintly, but his armour carries a golden sheen, and there are arcs of golden light dancing around his automaton as it writes in its notebook. Grog , Phillip, Percy and Vesper are also outlined in gold, and there is a strong shimmering aura that stretches out in a dome above them that Vax guesses must be the perimeter ward set up by the witches, like a delicate glasshouse made of light. “It’s beautiful,” he breathes involuntarily, as he looks around. “Whatever it is that this spy-glass makes you see, it’s all around us.”

 

“Maybe we just can’t see well enough in the dark,” says Nera, amused, from where she’s perched on one of the sleds. As he turns to her, she shifts into a tiny tarsier with large, luminous eyes blinking into the darkness. As she does, Vax sees a little puff of gold dust come off her, released into the air and swirling around her like ever so many tiny dust motes.

 

“I can’t see anything, still,” she says, disgruntled, and he lowers the spy-glass down so that she can peer through it. It only takes a moment for him to awkwardly adjust the viewing angle so that it’s pointed up at Taryon, and she gasps excitedly.

 

“It only seems to cling on living beings,” she says. “Well. Except for Taryon’s automaton, maybe.”

 

Vax looks back up at his sister, and in the dim light of the fire he can see her brow frowned in concentration, like as though she’s trying to put together pieces of a puzzle. He’d always tried to pay attention in his studies, but he knows that she’s the more analytical one, seeing connections in places he’d never expected. Maybe, he thinks, she’s figured something out about the spy-glass.

 

“Mynxi,” she calls, and he sees the white albatross waddle over, less graceful on land than he usually is in the air. “Witches say that Dust is in all of us, right? In living creatures only, or in the environment as well?”

 

“The _ashari_ believe that Dust is created by all sentient creatures,” Mynxi replies. “More in children and less in adults, but it is in all of us – the current theory is that it’s an energy produced by the soul. Sometimes, there may be Dust found in the natural world as well, though rarer and in smaller quantities – there are traces threaded through beautiful sunsets and sunrises, in lunar and solar eclipses, and in the dancing lights in the north where the Pyrah live.”

 

“And what does Dust look like?”

 

Mynxi does a wing-shrug. “ _Ashari_ can feel the presence of Dust if they concentrate, but it is more of an invisible energy rather than something visible or tangible.”

 

Vex looks at Mynxi, then down at the spy-glass, peers through it once more for good measure. “I think,” she says slowly, “that this spy-glass might let you be able to see Dust. But it also shows golden light around Taryon’s automaton, which is clearly not a sentient creature, so I might be wrong.”

 

“Let me see?” Mynxi leans forward interestedly, and Vex lowers the spyglass for him to peer through, awkwardly adjusting it as he turns his head this way and that. At last, he pulls away, says: “You may be right. Witch-magic shows up on this spy-glass clear as day, and we have always believed that our magic comes from our soul – it makes sense that it would carry Dust in it as well. Keep it – you never know when it might be useful.”

 

Vex pockets the spy-glass, but Vax feels compelled to ask: “And Doty, the automaton? Why does he show up with traces of Dust?”

 

Mynxi laughs. “Oh, Vax’ildan. How do you think the automaton can write on its own? Doty carries the traces of _ashari_ enchantment wrapped around his limbs. If I were to take a guess, based on the signature of the enchantment, it was done by one of our sisters in the Zephrah some time ago.”

 

It’s interesting to Vax, who never would have thought that witches and armoured bears would have had anything to do with each other, and he vaguely thinks he remembers whispers in his old history lessons about ancient alliances broken apart. Vex turns and leaves the conversation, going to sit with Percy by the fire, but there’s one more question that’s nagging at Vax’s mind, one that Mynxi hadn’t answered since earlier in the day.

 

“Mynxi,” he says quietly, and the albatross hangs back even as his sister heads away out of earshot. “You mentioned… you mentioned today, when you first arrived, that the witches with you would obey an order from the Queen or her daemon.”

 

“…Yes.”

 

“But Keyleth isn’t Queen, she’s just a princess. Or at least that’s what the Consul said.”

 

There is a pregnant pause. Just as Vax thinks Mynxi isn’t going to answer, just as he’s about to apologise and head back towards the fire, Mynxi says in a small voice: “Our mother is dead. We are Queen, now.”

 

( _Oh._ )

 

All at once, Vax feels a rush of shame-guilt-sympathy well up in him. In hindsight it was an obvious answer to a terrible question, and if he could take back the words still hanging in the air, he would. Nera, sensing his guilt and perhaps Mynxi’s lingering sadness, shifts back into raven form and brushes a wing gently against the larger albatross’ in comfort. “We’re sorry,” she whispers. “For your loss.”

 

“It’s quite alright,” says Mynxi, dipping his beak to nudge at Nera’s in return. “Death is no tragedy for the _ashari_ , not after centuries of life. Our goddess Yambe-Akka welcomes us back to her side with a smile and open arms. It’s just… we weren’t expecting it to happen so soon, is all.”

 

“If you’re sure,” says Vax, and Mynxi lets out a little laugh.

 

“We’re getting better, and in any event this prophecy is helping to take our minds off it for a while,” he says. “But thank you for asking, Vax’ildan.”

 

~

 

The next morning dawns and Pike wakes slowly, the surrealness of the day before making her feel like she’s still in a waking dream. She’d stood by the side of Queen Cerkonos and watched as Scanlan, brave Scanlan, had bargained with a bear easily three times his size, and somehow came out on top.

 

In this adventure she’s seen magic and played with truth-tellers, but she thinks _this_ perhaps might be the most exhilarating thing she’s experienced so far.

 

Neither Pike or Scanlan had their packs with them when they were unceremoniously dropped out of the sky, and there is no packing or busy-work to occupy herself with while waiting in their tiny room for the bear king to call upon them. Queen Cerkonos had said that her witches would guide them towards the closest city, Deastok – incidentally, the city they’d been heading to before the cliff-ghasts had attacked. But they can’t leave until the bear king Artagan presents Scanlan with the blade he’d promised, so Pike settles in for a long, idle wait.

 

About ten to twenty minutes go by in restless silence, only broken by Scanlan’s soft snoring from the other corner of the room. Soon, Pike finds herself reaching for her alethiometer, turning the dials to ask it questions in an effort to while away the time. _What do we do next,_ she asks, and it replies: _head west._

 

_Is that where the darkness we must fight is?_

_Yes._

_How must we defeat it?_

_Blade and bow_ , the alethiometer says. _From the abundance comes the healing._

 

It refuses to get any less cryptic even when Pike reframes the question, so she sighs and twists the dials to a different set of pictures, to a different question that’s been haunting her ever since she woke up without a furry warmth at her side: _how is Seren?_

 

 _Awake,_ says the alethiometer. _Alive. North, close._

 

Pike lets out a breath, holds the alethiometer to her chest for a moment, before tucking it back into the pouch around her neck. She’s grateful that she’d taken to having it on her person instead of in her pack – it’s almost like having another friend with her.

 

There’s a crunch of snow outside, and the little bear cub who had come to call them the evening before pokes her snout in. “Hi,” she says. “The King calls, and the witch-lady says it’s time to go.”

 

They slowly make their way to the centre of the bears’ encampment. In the daylight, Pike can make out more features which were previously hidden in shadow and flickering firelight: piles of bones from the evening meal, a large flat space on the ground cleared out in the snow and tamped down hard, pawprint-tracks where many a bear has walked back and forth.

 

Waiting for them are Queen Cerkonos, and the bear-king Artagan, who is holding something in his mouth. Pike nudges Scanlan forward, says: “He’s holding something for you.”

 

“Wha-”

 

Scanlan almost trips on the snow, and catches himself inches from the amused face of Artagan. “Silvertongue,” he says, and Pike’s incredibly curious as to how Scanlan had earned such a curious nickname from the king of the bears himself, “as per our agreement, I have forged you a blade.”

 

He lowers his head and drops the thing he’s holding in his jaws into Scanlan, and Pike leans over to look. It’s a blade that’s slightly longer than a dagger, straight blade polished and honed to a sharp edge on either side, and a hilt that looks like it was hammered into shape with a small chisel. The entire blade is the same shade of silver-copper-grey as the armour the bears wear, and it fits perfectly when Scanlan curls his fingers around the handle.

 

“This is named the Mythcarver,” rumbles Artagan. “It has no sheath, for the _panserbjørne_ are not leather-workers; but it has been forged from the sky-iron you once wore around your neck. There is something of a curious gravitas around it, as though the token it was made from was always meant to take this form. Use it well, Silvertongue.”

 

The name _Mythcarver_ seems to ring a bell in Pike’s head, and she frowns for a moment, trying to figure out where she’s heard it before. But recollection slips away from her like fine sand through her fingers, and she gives up. Instead, she watches as Scanlan carefully stows the knife at his belt, tearing off a strip of his inner shirt and wrapping it around the blade to prevent it from slicing his leg open.

 

“Thank you,” says Scanlan, and Pike echoes him. Artagan only nods, bids them to travel safe, and then nudges his snout towards a direction Pike can only assume is north, or towards Deastok. Cerkonos begins to lead the way on foot, her guard-witches taking turns to circle ahead in the sky and scout.

 

Pike turns back for one last glance at the bear encampment. The other bears who had been curious as to the nature of the departure have left; only one bear, wearing a twisted crown of iron, stands there in the snow, watching them as they walk further and further into the tundra.

 

It is cold, and Pike shivers a little despite the thick furs she’s wearing. Neither Cerkonos nor the other witches around her seem bothered despite the thin quality of their scarlet robes, and the noticeable lack of sleeves, and she wonders if there’s some witch-magic they’re doing to stay warm even in the face of the biting wind.

 

Walking in ankle-deep snow is slow-going, what with Pike and Scanlan’s feet sinking down with every step. Her boots are soaked already, and she doesn’t want to think about the state of the leather and the stitching – Gyptian-made leather is hardy, but it was not made with the cold in mind. By the time the sun is high in the sky, Pike feels like they have made no progress; yet somehow, when she turns back to look, there is no trace of the armoured bears’ encampment even on the horizon; everything is the same flat, white plain of the empty tundra.

 

Scanlan helps, a little – he tells stories to fill the quiet air, hands flourishing as though used to playing a lyre or violin that isn’t there. Aes provides acerbic commentary, a contrast to Scanlan’s hyperbolic style of storytelling, and despite herself, despite the cold and the emptiness inside her heart, Pike finds herself laughing along.

 

It is about noon or so, judging by the sun’s position in the sky, when one of the witches who had been scouting ahead from the air swoops down with a shout. “Figures approaching in our direction far up ahead,” she calls. Cerkonos, who had been flying slightly off the ground by their side, frowns and draws her bow, nocking an arrow and holding it loosely by her side.

 

“Humans on dog-sleds,” calls down the witch’s eagle-daemon, still in the sky with eyes trained on the distant horizon. His eyes must be sharp – Pike can’t see anything at all. “Two bears, and-”

 

Pike has never seen a bird do a double-take before, but that’s the best way to describe the odd aborted wing-movement the eagle makes. “-And a coterie in the air,” he finishes, a little faintly.

 

At the same moment, as they keep walking forward towards this curious group of people, Pike feels a tug in her heart, like the tug of a compass-needle towards the north, and she _knows_. Half of her heart, her soul, is there up ahead, a truth she _knows_ deep within her, truer than any answer the alethiometer could give her. She feels the pull as she stumbles forward past Scanlan and Cerkonos, not even caring as she half-trips through the snow.

 

“Don’t shoot!” she and Cerkonos call at the same time, and Pike’s running now, the ache in her heart throbbing with every stumbling step and her eyes filling with tears that get dashed away in the next instant by the wind rushing past her face. She can see a shape approaching now, a dark shape close to the ground that’s kicking up snow, bounding towards her as quickly as his little legs can carry him.

 

“Seren!” she calls, breathless, for it could be nobody else. The wind whips her voice away as quick as it does her tears, and she thinks she hears a voice call her name as well. She runs, and runs, and runs, half-sobbing and half-laughing as she collides with a warm furry body in the shape of a badger, squirming over her and licking her face over and over again, whispering for her ears only: _I’m sorry, I missed you, I love you._

 

(She whispers it back, over and over again.)

 

~

 

Mynxi calls out that there are people ahead, people who seem to be escorted by witches just like they are, but it doesn’t occur to Grog who they might be until Seren leaps off the sled and just takes off running. The dogs are maintaining a leisurely trot so as not to tire out throughout the day, but Seren is sprinting faster than Grog’s ever seen him before, and he outstrips the dogs soon enough.

 

There’s only one person Grog thinks Seren would run so fast for, and next to him Phillip sits up, tail wagging in excitement. “It’s Pike,” he whispers, wonderingly. “It’s got to be.”

 

And indeed – a good number of minutes later, they catch up to Seren lying on top of Pike (Pike!) in the snow, his best friend squirming and laughing even as tears lie drying on her cheeks. It heals something in Grog that he didn’t even realise had been broken, and he feels a sniffle coming on as well.

 

(It’s definitely the cold. It’s definitely not that he’s getting mushy or anything.)

 

Approaching from the distance, more slowly, is the witch-Queen Grog vaguely recognises from their first visit to the witches, the muscular woman dressed in red who had called herself Cerkonos. By her side, a short man in dusty-looking purple robes – “Scanlan,” Phillip whispers.

 

Somehow, their friends have developed a knack for not-dying, and Grog is immensely grateful for it.

 

Seren finally lets Pike up, and Grog immediately jumps off the sled and makes a beeline straight for her, picking her up and swinging her around like he used to when they were younger. It’s a little harder now compared to back then, because she’s grown a lot since then, but he doesn’t care.

 

“Grog!” she cries, and he feels her arms around her neck. “I am _so_ glad to see you. You won’t believe what Scanlan and I saw!”

 

“Funny,” Grog says, as he puts her down. “Was about to say the same thin’ about what _we_ saw.”

 

“You’ve got to tell me all about it,” says Pike, grinning, and he can’t help but foolishly grin back at his best friend, once more by his side, whole and healthy and happy. “Why were you guys headed this way?”

 

By this point, everyone else has stopped their sleds and dismounted, and Vex nearly shrieks aloud as she makes a beeline straight for Pike and embraces her. “We were going to find you!” she gasps. “We were going to find the bears, and ask them if they’d known where you and Scanlan might have fallen.”

 

“The bears did find us,” Pike laughs. “They were real nice and everything, gave us food and shelter. Queen Cerkonos came by and said we needed to go west, though – wouldn’t you guys have been heading there too?”

 

“Not without you and Scanlan,” Vex says firmly. “We go together or not at all.”

 

There’s a shift of purple in Grog’s peripheral vision, and he turns just in time to see Taryon almost smother Scanlan into the ice, his automaton scribbling furiously behind him. “You idiot,” Taryon grunts, almost sitting on Scanlan, “I almost thought you were _dead_. This group of dusty people shows up with your lyre and tells me you were thrown out of the _sky_!”

 

Scanlan wheezes, tries to roll out from under the considerable weight of a bear clad in iron armour, and fails. “I thought I was dead for a moment too,” he says dryly. “But, well, you know. Your little sky-iron token saved me, by the way. You should’ve told me it was such a big deal.”

 

“It’s just a custom,” says Taryon. “Did the King take it away from you?”

 

“Artagan? Naw, we’re cool,” Scanlan says with a grin. “He made it even cooler – if you get off me I’ll show you.”

 

This captures more of Grog’s attention, and he’s looking as Scanlan dusts the snow off his pants, and pulls from his belt what appears to be something shorter than a shortsword, made entirely of iron. Despite being a dull grey in appearance instead of shiny like Grog’s own sword, he can tell that it’s well made, and that the blade with its straight edge will be good for slicing through things. Taryon makes a strange whistling sound, and peers closely at the blade.

 

“Scanlan,” he says dryly after a moment. “I hate to tell you this, but this is definitely not made of the piece of sky-iron I gave you. There was too little iron to be able to make a full blade.”

 

Scanlan shrugs. “Well, he took it and said he was going to use it to make the blade. And armoured bears don’t lie, right? You told me that.”

 

“Maybe,” Grog interrupts, and they both turn to look at him. He clears his throat once, realising that he’s basically admitted to eavesdropping, and continues: “Maybe he added some more iron to it, y’know. Wouldn’t he have his own?”

 

“Cool,” breathes Scanlan. “I’ve got sky-iron from two bears, now. This has got to be a record, as far as humans go.” He gives the sword a couple of experimental swings, before wrapping it back up in the cloth that had bound it before, and shoving it back into his belt. “Big man, you’ve got to teach me how to use one of these. All I know is that you stick the pointy end into something.”

 

Grog snorts. “Sure,” he says. “I can teach you on the way back.”

 

~

 

They tell Scanlan and Pike that they’re a little nervous about going back to Deastok, that they’d killed a bunch of Conclave members not but a day prior. To Scanlan, the solution is obvious – nobody in Deastok has seen either him or Pike in the company of the rest, and Pike knows how to use the balloon. “We’ll go in and get the balloon out for you,” he says cheerily.

 

It’s a terrible plan, and like most terrible plans, it somehow works. The keeper of the aërodock is not alert in the morning, and he and Pike manage to hop into the basket and start filling the balloon with little issue. While they wait, Pike tells him to grab sandbags from a couple of other balloons, to keep their height low enough for the others to get into the basket outside of Deastok. This, on hindsight, is the hardest part of the plan, because Scanlan’s arms are made for plucking strings and not heavy lifting, but in the two hours it takes for the balloon to inflate he’s managed to deprive a good number of other balloons of their sandbags.

 

By the time the dock-keeper is more awake, and realises that the people fiddling with the balloon are not the same people who paid him to keep it there, the balloon is just lifting off the ground. Scanlan heaves a sandbag over the edge, and it hits the dock-keeper straight in the face, sending him tumbling.

 

“Sorry!” he calls over the edge of the basket, and it feels almost like _déjà vu_ , pissing off the keeper of an aërodock as they pull away, escaping a city that they’re no longer welcome in.

 

The rest are hauled into the basket quickly enough, even large Trinket, who takes a running leap and lands in the basket with a disturbing creak from the floor of the basket. There’s only space for one bear on the basket, however, and Tary watches them lift off as Grog and Percy throw most of the sandbags out of the basket at once.

 

 _When all this is done_ , Scanlan promises to himself, _I’ll come back to Deastok and find Tary, tell some stories with him for old times’ sake._

 

The flight to the west is grim, as once they’re in the air the witch-queen Cerkonos fills the rest in on the Spectres, and all the other information she’d told Artagan. The white albatross Scanlan remembers as being the witch Keyleth’s daemon also fills them in, tells them about the murder of almost an entire clan of witches, and a rip in the sky. The mood after is somber, and even though Scanlan tries to distract everyone by telling stories, it’s hard to shake off the weight of the knowledge that they’re finally, finally on their way to fulfill the witch-prophecy.

 

At night on their third day of flight, Scanlan’s dozing off when he suddenly feels as though someone’s poured ice-cold water on him. He jolts awake, and sees nothing – but he feels a cold, cold feeling in his heart, like a ghostly hand reaching out to squeeze it. Having experienced this once before, Scanlan knows what it is, and he sees outlined in the moonlight the faint unnatural shimmer in the air that indicates the presence of Spectres.

 

“Spectres,” he shouts out loud, and Percy jerks from where he’d been operating the navigation controls on the basket. Scanlan watches the shimmer move, and suddenly he sees Vesper’s eyes begin to glaze over, Percy’s hands begin to still and fall to his sides.

 

“No,” he snaps, leaping to his feet even as the basket rocks from the momentum. Almost as though on instinct, he reaches to his waist where Mythcarver is still stuck into his belt, and quickly unravels the cloth bindings. He lunges forward, swinging wildly, and although it looks like he’s sliced through thin air an inch from Vesper’s snout, the edge of the blade catches as though snagged by something. He pulls it up a little and brings it down again, driving his blade through some invisible fabric, and thinks he hears a shriek of rage before suddenly there’s no resistance to his blade, and he has to catch himself before it embeds itself into the floor of the basket.

 

Percy gasps, a horrible wheezing sound, and shakes his head, colour coming back to his cheeks and light to his eyes. “What,” he gasps, “was _that_.”

 

The rest of the group is stirring now, sleepily. Vex looks by far the most awake, and she’s fumbled in her pack and pulled out some sort of bamboo spy-glass, put it to her eye. “Vax,” she whispers urgently. “Vax, something’s siphoning your Dust away!”

 

But Vax does not stir from his sleep, and Nera does not twitch. Biting back a muffled swear, Scanlan swings around and slashes at the empty air above Vax repeatedly until he feels his blade snag on something again. He pulls, hard, and this time the sword slides through almost like butter, and then Nera groans and shakes her feathers, cracks open an eye.

 

“Vex,” says Scanlan. He’s not going to question how she can apparently see Dust at the moment, because it’s suddenly become very useful. “Is there any more siphoning action happening?”

 

She looks around wildly, spy-glass clutched tightly in her hand. “No,” she says after a while, and her shoulders loosen. “We’re in the clear.”

 

Vax groans and comes to, holding his head. “Ugh,” he says. “For a moment, all I could think about was how nice it would be to keep lying on the ground for all of eternity.”

 

Cerkonos floats closer to the basket. “It is the Spectres,” she says grimly. “They feed on your Dust, and take away your conscious thought in the process. I am more curious as to why the sky-iron blade could harm them.”

 

Scanlan shrugs, holds Mythcarver out to the moonlight as a silvery sheen envelops the blade. “I just thought it would scare them away,” he says. “I didn’t know it could hurt them either.”

 

“We’ve never been attacked by these before,” says Vex with a frown. “Why now?”

 

“They are born from the rip in the dimensional fabric that the Whisper now exploits,” replies Cerkonos, mouth in a thin, set line. “It means that we are getting close.”

 

~

 

The Cliffkeep Mountains are a long mountain range, with a wide valley running through the centre. As they approach, the tear in the dimensional fabric becomes clearer – from some angles, it looks like just another part of the sky, but from other angles it clearly seems to be a carelessly-ripped portal to a world of swirling, smoky black. Already, Vax can see tendrils of black snaking out of the opening and into the sky in this world, twitching and snatching like ever so many impatient snakes.

 

They land the balloon in a wide clearing. There is a lake here as well, though a little further ahead, possible a good hour’s walk or so. From the air, Vax could see tents set up some distance from the lakeside, and thinks that if the Conclave hadn’t known they were coming before, they would certainly have seen the descent of the balloon by now.

 

He steps off the basket armed for a good fight. All his daggers are sharp, strapped to various places of his body, and Nera is a snarling lioness at his side with sharp claws and sharper teeth. “This is it,” she says. “Can you feel it, Vax? Fate is calling us to this fight.”

 

He doesn’t feel the call of fate, _per se_ , but there’s a feeling coiling in his gut telling him that this is right, that they’re about to march to an epic battle that’s been many long days in the waiting. It’s a tense walk over, and just as the lake comes into view, Cerkonos roars a single word, and the witches in her guard let loose a volley of arrows on the tents just beyond. At the same time, another volley of arrows appears from the trees all around the lake, and Vax realises that there must have been other witches hidden in these trees for an unspecified amount of time, keeping a close eye on the camp.

 

“We are under attack!” roars a voice, and an angry-looking woman steps out of one of the tents, a wooden staff with a swirling black orb on the end in one hand, and no visible daemon. Her face is covered in a twisting pattern of scars shaped almost like burn marks, and her wild eyes are a bright green. She’s flanked by two men – one with pure white hair, and one with fiery red, both with prowling jackal-daemons following in their footsteps. She stops at the sight of them, and a mocking smile appears across her lips.

 

“The Dust-child still lives, then,” she says, looking directly at Vax, and he realises with a cold thrill that this must be Raishan of the Conclave. “A shame – I was rather hoping the cliff-ghasts would get the job done for me, but no matter. I can get rid of you myself.”

 

She cocks her head, and the two men each unsheathe a longsword in a synchronised motion, and begin to charge. Grog runs forward to engage the white-haired one, while Percy begins to take shots at the other. But the woman stands there, where she was before, a serene smile on her face. She raises her free hand, and snaps the fingers once.

 

Vax feels the hairs on the back of his neck prick up, and he jumps away just in time, as a bolt of lightning shoots down from the clear sky, slamming into the ground and leaving behind a large burn-mark where he’d been standing before.

 

All around him is chaos. Many, many Conclave members have poured out of the tents, and the witches all around him are raining down arrows, trying to take out as much of the crowd as possible. Cerkonos wheels in the sky, barking orders to a large party of witches arrayed in red, green, and blue. But Vax has eyes only for the woman who’d ordered the cliff-ghasts after him in the first place, the one who’d indirectly almost caused the death of Pike and Scanlan.

 

“You,” he snarls, pulling it out a dagger and throwing it with all his might at the face of Raishan, who tilts her head just enough to the side as to allow the blade to clatter harmlessly to the ground. She twitches her fingers, and Vax feels his arms freeze to his side, and he’s unable to move, only able to watch as Raishan keeps talking, getting closer to him with every step.

 

“Me,” she says. “You know, for a race of people who claim to keep their secrets well, it’s really easy to extract information from witches. All I had to do was torture their precious Consul until he gave up the information, and then kill him so nobody would be none the wiser. An unfortunate occupational hazard of his, that he has to be kept abreast of all important _ashari_ affairs, hm? Dear Vorugal had great pleasure in disposing of the body.”

 

She waves a hand in the direction of the white-haired Councillor who’s locked in combat with Grog, the both of them already covered in cuts of varying sizes.

 

“Unfortunately for you,” she continues, “I’m in the middle of a project right now. I know the witches have some bullshit prophecy about how you’re meant to stop it, but that’s all it is – bullshit.”

 

“Why,” Vax rasps, the only thing on his body that he can still move, “are you trying to get rid of me, then? If you don’t place stock in prophecy.”

 

“You’re a loose end, Dust-child,” she says. “I never sought to kill you. No – I always intended to have you brought here.”

 

By now, she’s reached toe-to-toe with him, a grin twisting her features. “You see,” she says. “The Whisper still hungers. And you, Dust-child, would be perfect to nourish him. He still owes me much, and with your help I would be able to claim much more from what has been promised to me. Wouldn’t that be lovely?”

 

Vax wants to do something, he wants to break free and stab her in the gut while she’s so close, he wants to spit in her scarred face and wipe the smirk off of it. But his hands are pinned to his sides, and he can feel sweat beading along his brow, and he’s helpless. Raishan reaches forward with one finger-

 

-And in the same instant, an arrow whizzes through the air and strikes her, forcing her to stumble back. “Get your hands off him, you _bitch_ ,” he hears an achingly familiar voice yell from above, and a moment later his vision is full of bright copper hair, as Keyleth hops off her branch of cloud pine, bow in hand with an arrow already nocked. Next to her, there is a heavy _thud_ as Mynxi lands on the ground, fighting with a ratty-looking vulture daemon.

 

“Raishan of the Conclave,” says Keyleth, and _oh_ , she looks every inch the leader that Mynxi had said they had to be, her eyes sparking fury and her spine ramrod-straight. “You have committed the crime of genocide against my people, my sisters, and for that you are anathema to us. By _ashari_ custom, you will suffer the death you inflicted a thousand times over.”

 

She looses another arrow, this one burying itself in Raishan’s thigh, and she grunts in pain, letting go of her staff to clutch at the new wound. In the same instant, Vax feels the hold on himself loosen, and Nera runs past him to jump onto the vulture-daemon, holding it firmly down with one paw, the other poised above it with the claws extended. Faced with an angry lioness and a large albatross, the vulture struggles even more, and Nera brings her claw right below the vulture’s head, ready to slice through it at a moment’s notice.

 

Behind, Vax hears Grog yell in triumph, and chances a quick look over his shoulder to watch as Grog slices clean through the white-haired Councillor, a small gush of blood flowing out as the sword swings around. He swallows, and turns back to Keyleth and Raishan.

 

“Why?” asks Keyleth softly. “Why did you kill so many? What purpose could it have possibly served?”

 

~

 

Raishan is on one knee before her, an arrow through her thigh and another through her shoulder, and Keyleth thinks she should feel a towering rage in her as she looks down at her mother’s killer, the same rage that had fuelled her mad flight up from the south all the way to the Cliffkeep Mountains. But her mind is still now, a blank canvas, and she can only quietly ask: _why?_

 

Raishan laughs and tries to move, and Keyleth sees a flash of black as Vax comes up behind her and pushes Raishan back down with a boot on her sternum, a dagger appearing in her hand and poised to stab her right through her heart. “Talk,” he says coldly, and it's a comfort even in this tense moment to see Vax have her back.

 

Her mother’s killer laughs, the sound hauntingly bitter. “The witches abandoned me first, Keyleth of the Zephrah _ashari_ ,” she says. “Do you know why I bear these scars? When I was not over my first decade in age, my mother tried to kill me with a Zephrah death-curse.”

 

Keyleth knows of the death-curse scars – Mynxi had informed her via sending-flowers right after making this discovery – but the statement startles her. Only witches know how to cast the death-curse, which means: “You were born to a witch?” she asks. “But you are not _ashari_.”

 

Raishan’s smile twists at the edges. “I am not,” she says, spitting the words out with venom. “Only girls may become _ashari_. And it did not matter to my mother that I was a girl’s soul born into a boy’s body – I would be unable to learn magic, unable to become a proper witch, and was all that mattered. She had spent her entire pregnancy prepared for a baby girl, a girl who could call fire from her fingers and give life to the wind around her. Instead, she got me.”

 

Dimly, Keyleth is aware that the battlefield around her has grown quiet, and she sees movement in her peripheral vision. Cerkonos steps up to her right, bends down and picks up the staff, from where it had fallen to the ground once Raishan had let go of it. “Your mother told you that you could not become _ashari_?” she asks, voice low and thoughtful, and Raishan laughs.

 

“She cursed me for it,” Raishan says. “It was truly fortuitous that she was a member of the guard for Zephrah’s Queen – I put a bullet through her heart myself. Her death would play no part in my greatest achievement – tearing open the sky itself.”

 

“But _why_ ,” Keyleth presses. “Your mother was _ashari_ , and you knew of our mission to guard the veils between here and the Shadowfell. Why would you desire to rip it open?”

 

“You, who has had everything she ever wanted, will never understand, little princess,” spits Raishan with a mocking half-smile. “The Whisper promised me magic, saw in me the potential for greatness. I was not enough for my mother, who wanted a daughter; not enough for my father, who wanted a son; but the Whisper saw me from beyond the veil, and said that I was enough, that he would give me the power to command magic as powerful as any _ashari_. For the first time in my life, I had value to someone. What wouldn’t I do for him?”

 

There’s a tiny whisper in the back of Keyleth’s head, hissing that she _doesn’t have everything she wants_ , but Cerkonos speaks and shakes Keyleth from her reverie. “And so he gave you this staff?”

 

“It was payment for my act of freeing him, yes,” says Raishan. “And now that he is free, he will recover his strength, and when he reaches his full power once more he will grant me even greater power than he already has, and I will stand by his side as his trusted lieutenant, free to do as I please.”

 

Cerkonos scoffs, twirls the staff in one hand. Keyleth turns to look at it – up close, she sees that there’s a globe of glass or crystal affixed to the top, some black smoke swirling within. “He lied to you,” says Cerkonos. “This staff does not gift you with magic; it is a focus. Magic, like Dust, comes only from the soul, and what he did was to amplify what you already had. We use focuses like these when we start learning magic, in the tribes. They draw on our magic for us, until the day we are able to draw on it ourselves.”

 

“No man may work the magic of the _ashari_ ,” snaps Raishan, sounding frustrated. “My mother-”

 

“Your mother was wrong, then,” says Cerkonos. “It matters not the shape of your body – magic will come to you if your soul is female. It may come at birth, or it may come later, but the day you realise that you are a female soul in a man’s body, you will realise that there is already magic within you. It is not something we teach widely in the _ashari_ , but it is a truth about our magic. And I know it to be true because,” and here Cerkonos pauses, runs her free hand through her sleek ponytail, “because I was once, too, a woman in a man’s body. But my magic still serves me till this day, and my sisters look upon me as their steadfast Queen, because what matters is not the shape of your body, but the shape of your soul.”

 

Raishan is quiet for a beat, and Keyleth can see her eyes flickering between Cerkonos, Vax, and Keyleth. On Keyleth’s other side, Percy comes up from behind, a warm comforting presence at her elbow; opposite her, she can see Grog walk up, sword still dripping with slow-drying blood. Further, if she looks closely, she can see Vex and Scanlan doing a perimeter check around the still battlefield, Vex with some sort of tube held to her eye and Scanlan with a blade made entirely of iron. But Keyleth’s attention is laser-focused on Raishan, Raishan who had just been told that the entire foundation of her bitterness was a lie, Raishan who had known how precious the veil was to the _ashari_ and yet had ripped it open anyway, Raishan who had killed many, many witches in cold blood and felt no sorrow.

 

“Perhaps in a different life, we might have been sisters growing up together with the Zephrah,” she says quietly, voice wavering. “I feel sorry for you, that you never knew the truth of your magic. But you have killed many of my sisters, betrayed the most precious mission of the _ashari_ , and for that I cannot forgive you.”

 

“The Whisper’s return has already been set into motion,” says Raishan. “It doesn’t matter what you think of me, whether you forgive me or not. Every second the Whisper takes in more and more of the Dust in this world. It is a process you cannot stop. Your prophecy has failed.”

 

“That may be so,” says Keyleth. “But you are of no use to us if you know of no way to stop the Whisper, so I will instead satisfy my claim of vengeance against you.”

 

From her quiver she pulls a sharp arrow, the arrow Cerkonos had gifted her once upon a time on a moonlit night upon the shores of a lake in the Sunderpeak Mountains, that carries enchantments of the Pyrah to pierce through all armour and hit the target. But it’s not just Cerkonos’ arrow anymore. On the desperate flight west, she’d taken the arrow out and ruminated over it every night, casting a little of her own magic in it as well. The arrow she takes out now is almost glowing with her magic, a faint black smoky trail curling around it from tip to fletching, and Keyleth sees the light of recognition in Raishan’s green eyes.

 

“A death-curse,” she says, and laughs. “I have already survived one of those. What makes you think another would do the job?”

 

Keyleth nocks the arrow and aims it at Raishan’s heart, just below where Vax’s dagger is pointing. She pulls the bowstring back, takes a deep breath, and thinks of her sisters in the Terrah who she will never meet. She thinks of Queen Pa’tice of the Terrah, a slim woman with knobbly joints who she’d only met once in her life, a patient old witch with a quicksilver smile. She thinks of Tiberius, found tortured and murdered in his home by a group of witches from the Vesrah who had tried to get him to send word to Terrah. And she thinks of her mother, copper hair just like Keyleth’s own shining beautifully in the setting sun, eyes creased by sorrow over the death of her lover but still full of kindness and love for her little daughter. All this needless death, caused on the orders of one woman, and the melding of sorrow and anger floods through Keyleth, causing her hands to tremble ever so slightly on the bow.

 

Next to her heart, Keyleth imagines she can feel the little wooden amulet from her mother flare just once, a last beat of encouragement from mother to daughter, and a single tear runs down her cheek.

 

“It matters not that you have survived one before,” she says quietly. “The only thing that affects the effectiveness of a death-curse is the _intention_.”

 

She lets out a long breath, and looses the arrow.

 

~

 

Vex and Percy had taken turns taking pot-shots at the large red-haired Councillor, but he’d been surprisingly nimble for a man of his size, and it wasn’t until Grog had run over, sword still dripping with the blood of the white-haired one, and cut him down that the Councillor had fallen.

 

All around them are members of the Conclave being picked off from the air by a horde of angry witches, and Keyleth ( _when_ did she get here?) is standing over the scarred Conclave woman, speaking in low tones. The battle looks like it’s been wrapped up in a matter of minutes, and Vex thinks she might not really be needed in this cleanup.

 

“Come,” she says to Scanlan, grabbing his arm. “If we’re close to the rip in the sky, there may be Spectres about. I need your help.”

 

There are, as it turns out, a few Spectres lurking about. It’s hard to spot them when the area here seems to be saturated by a fine layer of Dust – latent magic from the witches who used to live here, perhaps – but Vex has sharp eyes, and she points out every little siphoning of Dust to Scanlan, who waves his blade around madly until the siphoning stops. (It’s not a perfect method, but it works, and that’s all that matters to Vex.)

 

By the time they complete one circle around the battlefield, the fighting has died down, and she and Scanlan approach the centre just in time to see Keyleth shoot a pitch black arrow point-blank into the Conclave woman’s chest, and watch dispassionately as the woman is suddenly engulfed in ghostly black flames and screams. Her brother jumps back, having previously been holding his blade to the woman’s chest, and catches her eye.

 

“Hey,” he says, and he looks grim.

 

“What the _hell_ was that,” Vex says in response.

 

“The death-curse that the witches were telling us about in Deastok, apparently,” he replies. “Took me by surprise. Oh, and Raishan was saying that there’s no way to stop the drain of Dust to the Whisper, either, so I’m guessing if we stay here long enough it’ll take the Dust from us as well. No idea what that’s like, but it doesn’t sound good.”

 

“Great.” She hopes that Vax can hear the sarcasm in her voice. “Just great.”

 

Just out of curiosity, she lifts the spy-glass to her eye again, and examines the massive rip in the sky almost directly above the lake. Now that she’s looking up and not at ground level, she realises that the siphoning effect of the Spectres have nothing on the Whisper – it’s pulling in Dust in much larger amounts, and the golden particles are sucked into the rip and vanish entirely. Already, the sky around the rip is void of Dust, appearing like a massive hole punched through a glasshouse made of golden light, and Vex involuntarily shivers.

 

“It doesn’t look good,” she says.

 

They’re not standing particularly close to the lake, but Vex can see from this distance that there’s a clear strip of empty space between where the tents of the Conclave members end and the lake begins. There, she muses, is probably where the rip in the sky is currently siphoning the Dust from. If she squints, she thinks she can see human forms standing still by the lakeside, gazing up into the black gash in the sky, unmoving.

 

“So,” says Percy, coming up behind Vax, pulling a teary-looking Keyleth along by a firm grip on her wrist. “What do we do now?”

 

Wordlessly, Vex hands over the spy-glass to him, and he raises it up to the sky for a good look. “My word,” he says, doing a double-take, and looking closely again. “That’s… not good.”

 

“Um,” says Pike in a small voice. She’s got the alethiometer out in her hands, and the needle is swinging wildly. “The alethiometer told me that abundance is the key to fixing the rift. If that helps.”

 

“Abundance?” Vex asks, frowning. That’s cryptic, and she doesn’t like cryptic, but she does enjoy a good puzzle from time to time. “Abundance of what, Dust? Wouldn’t that just feed it at a faster pace?”

 

Pike bites her lip, and obligingly fiddles with the alethiometer again. “It says that the Whisper can’t take in too much Dust at once,” she says. “If we create a sudden large burst of Dust, it might be enough to overwhelm it, stop it from siphoning away the Dust long enough to seal up the veil again.”

 

There is a pause as Pike’s words sink in, and Vex is trying to figure out what this means, how they’re supposed to go about creating an influx of Dust, when her brother clears his throat and reaches for her hand. “I know how to create Dust,” he says quietly. “I’ll go, and hopefully it will be enough. Sister, take care of them.”

 

Vex’s jaw drops. “You’re not going anywhere without me,” she snaps. “Don’t put me through that again. What if you get attacked by Spectres or something while you’re off being heroic? You’ll need me and Scanlan to look out for them and fend them off, won’t you.”

 

She can see Vax opening his mouth to argue, but Scanlan beats him to the punch. “Safety in numbers,” he says. “I’ve got this fancy blade, might as well put it to good use.”

 

Vax looks constipated for a moment, but sighs. “Fine,” he says. “I’ll need to get closer. Come on.”

 

He turns and begins to walk towards the lake, and Vex immediately follows, pulling Scanlan along her. She can hear more than one set of footsteps trailing her, though, and looks over her shoulder to see Pike, Percival, Grog, and Keyleth all walking behind her. _This mess brought us together_ , she thinks hiding a small smile. _We’ll end it together_.

 

They walk past the line of tents, and almost immediately Vex feels a little numbing presence at the back of her mind, a little voice whispering in her ear: _wouldn’t it be nice to just stay here?_

 

There’s a sharp yank on her sleeve as Trinket drags her back behind the tents, and it’s like dousing her mind with ice-cold water – crystal clarity returns to her in a rush, and she gasps as though for air. “Here,” she manages to rasp, and beside her Scanlan is similarly hunched over, looking winded. “No further.”

 

Vax gives her a long look and nods, sinking fluidly to his knees. “Stay back a bit further, just in case,” he says. “If it looks like things are going to go wrong, take the rest and run.”

 

“Vax-”

 

“Vex’halia.” Vax’s eyes are burning coals, boring into her own, and his mouth is set in a grim line. “ _Promise me._ If I cannot save myself, I’m at least going to try to save the rest of you.”

 

Vex wants to scream at him, _you’re only the older brother by two minutes, you don’t always have to protect me_. She wants to scream, _I’m always going to want to save you, you idiot._ But she knows she’s got absolutely nothing besides a spy-glass that can see Dust, nothing that could help lighten her brother’s task, and she sighs, pulls Scanlan a few feet back. For a brief second, she can see the hint of a smile flit across Vax’s face.

 

“Don’t worry,” he says. “This feels right. It’s a good gut feeling.” He closes his eyes, and Nera-

 

Nera begins to change.

 

Oh, Vex has seen her change before, but she’s flickering from form to form now, raven-leopard-owl-lizard-wolf, faster than she’s ever seen Nera change before now. She thinks that if she blinks, she’ll miss the moment when fur turns into scales, or hooves turn into claws. It’s strange, her brother kneeling perfectly still while his curious daemon changes and changes and _changes_ for a chance at saving them all.

 

She pulls up the spy-glass and takes a look, sees a puff of Dust appear every time Nera changes. But it’s not a very large puff of Dust, and although small motes of it linger after every transformation at the start, soon she begins to notice the Dust beginning to siphon away almost as soon as Nera releases it into the air.

 

“Not enough,” she whispers quietly to herself, not as to disturb Vax. But she thinks Keyleth, standing next to her and wringing her hands anxiously, might have heard, because in the next moment Keyleth is striding up to Vax, sinking to her knees beside him, and a wind begins to blow. It stirs from Keyleth’s hands and begins to whip around the pair of them, faster and faster, until the images of Keyleth and Vax that Vex can see with her naked eye are blurred around the edges, like reflections in a pond.

 

There are little golden streaks in the wind that circles around the witch and her brother and their two daemons. _Dust in their magic_ , Vex thinks. _But it’s still not enough_. She’s about to call out to the other witches to pour their magic in as well, or ask Pike to ask the alethiometer what they should do to generate an abundance of Dust, but as it turns out, there’s no need. Just as she’s about to open her mouth, she feels a shockwave of some sort of energy run through her, leaving her warm in the light of the early evening sun.

 

Through the spy-glass, she sees where once was a vortex of wind threaded through with gossamer-strands of Dust, there is now a nebula of golden light pouring from Keyleth and her brother, up into the sky. She doesn’t know what Keyleth or Vax might have done, and she thinks perhaps that she doesn’t need to know what they’ve done. But _this_ , she thinks, watching the Dust stream upwards in a never-ending torrent, _might just be enough._

 

~

 

Keyleth knows that there is Dust in magic. It is how the _ashari_ can identify the magical signatures in the enchantments of others, but it is also only a trace amount, like a finger-print her soul leaves on the spells she casts. Still, a little might go a long way, and so she kneels with Vax and begins to concentrate, calling the winds to her, imagining filling them up with all the Dust she holds in her soul.

 

It’s not enough. She can feel it, the horrible pull on the Dust she releases into the air, and knows that it’s not nearly enough to overwhelm the hunger of the Whisper. “Vax,” she says, voice almost lost in the roar of the winds spiraling around them. “Vax, this isn’t working.”

 

His eyes snap open and stare at her, like he hadn’t expected her to be here. “Keyleth,” he says. “What are you doing here? You heard the prophecy – this is my burden to bear.”

 

“It is the veil of my people, and therefore also my burden to bear,” she snaps back. “At the rate you’re going, you’ll have to keep generating Dust for the rest of eternity, and it still won’t stop the Whisper. Come back, Vax. We’ll think of something else.”

 

He studies her, almost as though he’s trying to figure out if she has a hidden motive; by his side, Nera continues to shift and shift, in a never-ending dance. The sun is setting now, the light a little distorted by the rushing winds around them but still managing to outline his silhouette in golden sunlight as he looks at her. “Your people need you,” he says. “Nobody needs me. Except Vex, maybe. I can stay here, plug the gap until you guys find a better solution, I promise.”

 

“That’s-” _That’s not true_ , Keyleth almost says, but the words are stuck on the tip of her tongue, and when she opens her mouth there is only silence. _I need you. I can’t leave you. I’m already scared of losing you, but I’m not going to leave you behind._ But it all sounds a little over-the-top, a little too confessional, and she swallows the words back down. “Your sister will be devastated,” she says instead, because it’s easier, and also equally true.

 

Vax smiles crookedly at her. “She’ll live. She’s always been the stronger of the two of us.”

 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Mynxi snaps irritably by her side, and it’s the first time she’s ever heard her prim-and-proper daemon swear. She’s thrown by it, and so she doesn’t react as he waddles forward, and thrusts his head under Vax’s free hand. His fingers brush the soft feathers at the top of Mynxi’s head, and in the same moment Keyleth feels a frission go up her spine.

 

“Mynxi,” she whispers, breathless, and he turns – still under Vax’s hand – to glance at her.

 

“You’re being stupid again,” he says. “So what if it hurts? Isn't the loving worth the pain later? Or do you think Mother regretted having us, regretted the time she spent with Father? We’re might lose our heart right before our eyes today, and you’re still clinging to your fear. _I’m_ sick of it.” He butts his head against Vax’s palm again, but Vax is frozen in place, staring at the albatross head-butting his hand.

 

“Mynxi,” he whispers, hoarse. “It’ll hurt you, won’t it? Me touching you.”

 

“You’re stupid too,” snaps Mynxi. “You would never hurt us.”

 

Keyleth’s holding her breath, and she doesn’t know what she’s waiting for. Nera is still shifting, and she’s still holding the winds twirling in a cocoon around them, and she’s looking at Vax and at Mynxi with her heart beating almost too loudly in her chest. Finally, _finally_ , Vax’s fingers curl in, and he runs his calloused palm down Mynxi’s neck and back.

 

Keyleth had wondered, once, what it might feel like to have another touch your soul. She knows that normally it’s the worst feeling in the world, to have a person hold your very soul in their hands, but she’s always wondered if the same would be true for a person who already holds your heart. _Now_ , she thinks, _now I know_. Vax’s touch on Mynxi’s back skitters across her skin like ever so many anbaric sparks, better than star-song, better than the rush of magic. It’s heady and intoxicating, and she’s breathless, and she feels the _rightness_ of it singing in her bones.

 

Tentatively, almost as though on instinct, her hand reaches out and rests atop Nera’s head, and it changes under her hand from scale to hide to feathers, lightning-quick. She hears a startled gasp from Nera, and feels it under her hand as the other daemon stops changing and takes a single form, runs her hand along Nera’s head and back and tail. The horrible feeling of siphoning that she’d felt since starting to work her magic does not worsen, even though Nera’s stopped changing, and she has no idea why. She doesn't know what she’s doing, only keeps doing it because it feels right, because she hears Vax gasp aloud as she rubs Nera’s head with her thumb, because she feels the tingle on her skin as his fingers ghost past Mynxi’s wing. She looks up at him, imagines him sacrificing himself here as bait for the Whisper to secure an escape for the rest of them, and feels the sorrow in her heart like a tidal wave. _Maybe Mynxi was right_ , she thinks. _My heart is here._

 

“Vax,” she says, just loud enough for him to hear over the roar of the wind. He looks up at her, eyes more unguarded than she’s ever seen him (and really, he’s let down his guard enough to let her place her hands on his soul, so this should be no surprise), and raises an eyebrow.

 

 _I think,_ she almost says. _I think I might love you._ The dying sun has streaked the sky fiery golden orange and yellow above them, and in the warm light his eyes are a light brown, blinking at her, and before she loses her nerve she leans forward, lightning-quick, and touches her lips to his for a brief second. As she does, she feels a rush of energy around them, almost like as though she’d created a second vortex of wind, and for a moment she thinks she can see a river of golden particles swirling around her and Vax, sparkling in the light of the dying sun.

 

( _Dust,_ her mind whispers. _An abundance of Dust._ )

 

Her hand never leaves Nera’s head, and Vax’s hand never leaves Mynxi, and she watches the beautiful river of golden light spill of their bodies and spiral upwards, slamming into the rift above like a waterfall in reverse, a glowing corona of love and light and wonder blooming around them. Dimly, she thinks she hears a scream echoing from the sky, getting fainter and fainter as the first stars of the night begin to blink into visibility, lending their star-song to the complex melody the Dust weaves around them.

 

She’s still afraid, she knows that she’ll need to go back with the Zephrah to lead her people, knows that Queens cannot disappear for fifty years at a time to live with their human lovers. But today, just for now, she’s given in.

 

 _I think I love you,_ she thinks fiercely, watching the Dust fly all around them. _I do, I do, I think I really do._

 

~

 

After it’s all over, after they close the rift in the sky (“Through the power of _love_ ,” Nera says, and cackles), after they stumble back to the rest of their friends drained and exhausted but somehow grinning like idiots, they all go for a drink. There’s no tavern in the valley of the Cliffkeep Mountains, but they’re coincidentally not far from the little town of Daxio, where he and Vex had come to so long ago in the tiny riverboat of Pike and Grog. In the same tavern where his sister had once asked the innkeep if she’d seen a woman looking like Kima, they take up a huge table in one corner, fill it with as many ales as the groaning wood can hold, and have a toast.

 

“To surviving,” Scanlan says with a grin, raising his tankard high. “And to all the crazy shit we’ve seen.”

 

“Amen,” laughs Pike, and they all clink their glasses together.

 

(Right after it had all ended, Pike had reached for the alethiometer, to ask if it was all truly over. She’d spent a good long while staring at the symbols, and a good while longer watching the twitching of the longest hand.

 

“I don’t know what it says,” she’d said. “I can’t hear its voice, anymore.”

 

“Maybe,” Vex had said, “that means that all this is well and truly over.” And perhaps, he had mused, that was all that mattered.)

 

Tomorrow, perhaps life will go back to normal. Vax knows that Pike will have to return the alethiometer to Vasselheim University, but that she’s been offered a place there to study it. Her ability to read the alethiometer by grace is gone now, but Vax doesn’t doubt that Pike will throw herself into learning how to read it once more. And where Pike goes, Grog will follow. If the considering looks he’s been throwing Pike are any indication, perhaps Scanlan as well.

 

Keyleth, who’d been shy and stuttering all the way back, will have to return to lead her sisters. _I’m Queen now,_ she’d told him. _I can’t stay, the way you probably want me to. I’m sorry. I need to go._

 

Hours later, the rest have retired to bed, and it’s just him and Vex sitting in the corner, nursing quickly-warming glasses of half-drunk ale. In the flickering candlelight, it feels almost like old times, Nera and Trinket taking guesses as to which one of them would be the first to pass out from the alcohol. The colour of Nera’s plumage is different now, and will continue to be different from now on, but everything else remains the same.

 

“So,” Vax says, an echo of the same talk they’d had not but a day ago outside an inn in Deastok. “Where do we go from here, sister?”

 

She throws him an odd look, bites her lip. “We need to go get the money from Scholar Allura in Emon College,” she says. “It’s enough that we don’t need to work for a good few years. I… listen, Vax. Right after it was all over, Percy asked me to come exploring with him, fly his balloon down south. Do a little exploring, do a little recon, make sure that all the Dust’s where it’s supposed to be.”

 

Vax opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. “That’s… nice,” he manages, voice strangled, and Vex snorts.

 

“We’d assumed you would be going somewhere with Keyleth,” she says. “He said, since I was going to be lacking a partner for a while, it would be nice to have a travelling companion, something interesting to do, and an extra crossbow at his back.”

 

“It’s complicated,” he sighs, but Vex looks at him with narrowed eyes, and he knows he’s not going to get away with just that as his answer.

 

“Tell me.”

 

And so, haltingly, he does. She’s his sister, after all, and there are almost no secrets between them. He tells her about his confession, about Keyleth’s parents and her father’s death, her fears, her Queenship. He doesn’t tell her about the kiss, or the way he still feels the ghost of her lips on his, the brush of her fingers on his arm as she’d gone up to bed for the night – that all seems too personal to tell. But the rest, he does, and when he’s done Vex sighs, a look in her eye that says she’s trying to solve the puzzle before her.

 

“I don't know, brother,” she says. “You said her father died a hundred and fifty years ago? How long has her mother been Queen?”

 

Vax shrugs. “No idea.”

 

“You should _ask_ her,” Vex groans. “If her mother was Queen when she met her father, then that means it’s not impossible, you know. To see Keyleth even if she’s Queen now.”

 

“But she doesn’t want me that way,” he snaps, frustrated. “She said she couldn’t stay. Which is true – she can’t.”

 

“Not being able to stay is not entirely the same as not wanting to be in love with you, brother,” says Vex wearily. “I saw her run after you down by the lakeside without so much as a second thought, the moment we realised that your Dust alone wasn’t going to be enough to keep the Whisper at bay. There’s definitely some part of her that cares enough for you to run, uncaring, straight into danger and possible death, you know. As much as it pains me to have this awkward talk with you about your love life, please go and speak with her about it, before she leaves and you lose your chance and spend the next fifty years moping all around the place.”

 

Trinket snorts in amusement. “You’re being stupid,” he agrees, and it’s that unconscious echoing of Mynxi’s words that get to him. “Fine,” Vax grumbles. “Fine. I’ll go. If my heart gets broken again it’s entirely your fault, I’ll have you know.”

 

And so Vax finds himself, five minutes later, standing awkwardly outside the room Keyleth’s staying in. It’s not incredibly late, but it’s not early either, and he gathers up his courage to knock, only to step away from the door, three separate times. He’s about to try and knock for a fourth, when the door swings open and Keyleth peeks out, hair rumpled and circlet gone from her head.

 

“…Vax,” she says. “Were you loitering outside my room?”

 

“Could I talk to you?”

 

She smiles at him, and it’s a small little thing, but his heart lurches a little, anyway. “Come in,” she says.

 

Her room is rather tidy, even though the window is wide open and the night breeze is blowing in. Her flying-branch is leaning against the wall next to the open window, and Mynxi is perched on the writing-desk in the corner of the room. Vax sits on the floor cross-legged and fiddles with his fingers for a bit, trying to find the words to say.

 

“Your mother,” is what he ends up blurting. “When she met your father, was she the Queen already?”

 

Keyleth clearly had not expected this question, and she blinks at him a couple of times. “Yes,” she says, puzzled. “He was the Consul before Tiberius. That was how they met. Why?”

 

Vax breathes out a shaky breath. “What did you mean, when you said that you couldn’t stay the way I wanted you to?”

 

Her shoulders droop a little, and she nervously twists a few strands of hair around her fingers. “Humans settle down,” she says quietly. “They live in a nice house and they have children, and they spend the rest of their lives living among other humans. I need to be with my sisters, and I can’t stay and settle down. You deserve someone who can give you that. And besides, you need to stay with your sister.”

 

Vax thinks of his sister, who’s already made plans with Percy to travel down to the south, and snorts. “She doesn’t need me for the forseeable future, I think,” he says. “And who says I want to settle down?”

 

“Don’t humans all want to settle down?” Keyleth asks hesitantly.

 

“Well, in some form, yes,” Vax admits. “But that doesn’t mean I want you to come live with me and abandon your duties. You know I could never ask you to do that. But I don’t see how leading your sisters and living a human lifetime with me are so mutually exclusive.”

 

“I guess part of me is still afraid of losing you,” she says. “But what I realised by the lakeside in the Cliffkeep Mountains is that I’m going to lose you, whether or not I allow myself to love you. That perhaps, all my worst fears were doomed to come true.”

 

There is silence for a moment, and then Vax clears his throat. “Nera’s settled,” he says, gesturing to his daemon who’s currently perched on the edge of the windowsill. She’s got grey feathers and a white underbelly, little white markings under each of her eyes – the form she’d taken when they’d closed the rift in the veil together.

 

“I’d suspected, when she didn’t turn back into a raven,” Keyleth says. “What kind of bird is she?”

 

“A storm petrel. Do you know what’s special about them? Year after year, no matter how far away they are, they always return to the same nesting locations, the place they call home.”

 

She’s quiet, looking at him, the silence between them pregnant with expectation. She’s not flinching away, not running away, and Vax takes a little courage from that as he picks his next words. “Keyleth,” he says, “listen. My feelings have not changed. You’ll always be home to me, and no matter where we are I’ll always return to you, if you’ll have me. I don’t care about living an ordinary life, settling down in an ordinary town. Adventure is in my blood, you know.”

 

Keyleth worries her lip between her teeth. “We won’t see each other all the time,” she says. “The distance will be hard – even if you take up residence near where the Zephrah live, I must spend most days, some nights, with my sisters to hold court, and to look over them.”

 

“But it’s not _impossible_. Keyleth, I know you will have your duties, I knew it from the first time I saw you, and found out that you were practically _ashari_ royalty. But if you’re willing to spend any time, any time at all with me, I will count myself lucky to have it.”

 

She smiles then, a small hesitant smile, like dawn breaking after a long night. “You know,” she says. “When you down there by the lakeside, just you and Nera trying to fend off the Whisper, all I could think of in that moment was that I couldn’t lose you. That if I was going to lose you to the Whisper, then I would only do so after I’d done everything in my power to keep you here with me. And then you held my soul in your hands, and it felt like it belonged there. So,” she lets out a deep breath, and tucks a curl behind her hair. “You’re right. Nothing is set in stone, and we won’t know if anything is impossible until we try. And I think I want this enough to try with every atom, every fibre of my being.”

 

Vax can scarcely breathe. “So,” he says softly, “is that a yes?”

 

She laughs, then, and in that moment he thinks he wants to see her laughing every day for the rest of his life, unrestrained and carefree. “It’s a yes,” she says. “I think I love you, Vax’ildan. It’s going to be hard, but I think it’s going to be worth it.”

 

He feels his lips pull upwards, grinning like a maniac back at her, but he doesn’t care, only reaches across to take her hand and interlace their fingers together. “I love you,” he says. “That’s pretty fucking great, isn’t it?”

 

She grins back at him, and squeezes his fingers, still intertwined with hers. “If we’re going to be doing this,” she says after a while, “there’s just one more thing, something that might make it easier for us to see each other, perhaps. Something not quite like settling down, but not quite like being in constant movement, either.”

 

“Hm?”

 

“I,” she says, looking nervous and excited in equal measure, “have a job proposition for you.”

 

~

 

**epilogue, some years later**

Syldor Vessar, the Bursar of Syngorn College, is not usually one to attend inter-College functions; those, he usually leaves to his wife, who is more disposed towards social situations. But for this function, an invitation had been sent to the College specifically addressed to him: _The Master and Cassington Scholar of Ioun College, Osysa Truthseer, invites you to Vasselheim for a special presentation on the movement of elementary particles in the south following the Healing of the Great Rift, conducted by renowned adventurers Vex’halia Vessar and Percival de Rolo._

 

And so here he is, standing in a corner, watching as his oldest daughter shows off the last of her carefully-developed photograms with a flourish, and to great applause. There is a curious myriad of guests in attendance – a young blonde-haired woman in robes marking her as an apprentice of the Cassington Scholar is seated at one of the tables near the front, next to a large man in Tartar markings and Gyptian clothing, and a smaller man in the jaunty robes of a minstrel. There is a woman in golden armour lounging against the back door of the ballroom, looking like she’d rather be outside. There is an armoured bear by her side, too big to comfortably fit around any of the cocktail tables, and a metallic automaton by his side furiously taking notes. And there is a woman in ragged green robes and bare feet seated at the front table, leaves in her windswept hair, listening intently – the elaborate crown of gold wire twisted into the shape of olive branches on her head marks her as a Queen of one of the witch-clans.

 

“Didn’t think you would come, in the end,” says a voice from behind him, and Syldor turns to see his son, grey petrel-daemon perched on his shoulder, and dressed in a finely-embroidered set of navy-blue silk robes, pinned in place by an intricate golden brooch in the shape of a leaf. They’re perfectly suited for a function like this, and yet entirely different from what he’d expected Vax’ildan to be wearing. Tucked behind his ear, utterly incongruous yet somehow the most familiar-looking thing on his person, is a small spray of scarlet flowers, almost lost against the smooth black of his hair.

 

“I did receive a personalised invitation,” Syldor says dryly.

 

“I know,” Vax’ildan says. “I wrote it. I thought you might be interested in Vex’s newest findings, given your area of specialty.”

 

There’s a stilted silence between them for a while, before Vax’ildan breaks it again. “You know,” he says. “When we were younger, Vex and I never thought we’d have anything to do with Dust, elementary particles, and all that experimental theology nonsense that you tried to force us to study. In a roundabout turn of irony, it seems that we’re pursuing it, after all. So perhaps we are less of a disappointment now than we might have been, to you.”

 

“You were never a disappointment,” Syldor says awkwardly. Truth be told, it has been far too long since he last spoke face-to-face with his erstwhile children, and it’s a little disconcerting to speak to one of them almost as equals, now. “Your choice of career was merely… concerning, and highly unpredictable.”

 

Vax’ildan shrugs, takes another sip from the flute of Tokay he’s holding. A slim ring on his fourth finger catches the light, a thin band of rose-gold shaped to look like a leafy vine coiled thrice around his finger. “You know,” he says, “I never thanked you for sending us Scholar Allura’s way, back then. If we hadn’t gone on that mission for her, I think both Vex and I would be in very different places now.”

 

It’s a metaphorical olive branch, and one that Syldor fully intends to grasp with both hands. “…You’re welcome, I think.”

 

“Oi, Mister Consul!” There’s a yell from the front, and Syldor turns to see the man dressed as a minstrel waving in their direction. “Get your ass here, we’re toasting your sister!”

 

“Coming, Scanlan,” Vax’ildan calls back across the ballroom with a roll of his eyes, and looks at Syldor once more.

 

“Consul?”

 

Vax’ildan laughs, actually laughs, at the naked surprise in Syldor’s voice. “Vax’ildan Vessar, diplomatic Consul to the witch-clans of Exandria, at your service,” he says. “Doesn’t pay quite as much as adventuring, but it’s a good job.” He nods once more to Syldor, and turns as though to leave in the direction of the far end of the ballroom, closest to the stage.

 

“Vax’ildan,” Syldor blurts, and Vax’ildan stops in his tracks. “I know I was never the most loving of fathers. For what it’s worth, I am proud of you and Vex’halia. It is good to see both of you doing well.”

 

His son turns back, smiles a crooked smile. “Thank you,” he says. “See you around… Father.”

 

Syldor watches as his son walks away from him towards the table at the front. The barefooted witch in the ragged robes catches his hand on the way up, appears to whisper something to him, and Vax’ildan smiles down at her, puts an arm around her waist and presses his lips briefly to her forehead. Up on the stage, Vex’halia has finished packing away the last of her presentation equipment, and jumps down to meet the gathering at the frontmost table, her white-haired companion and fellow adventurer by her side, one hand on her shoulder. The young woman in the Scholar’s robes says something to Vex’halia and she laughs freely, tossing her head back in mirth.

 

“To the best of us,” roars the Tartar, lifting what appears to be perhaps a litre of ale in a massive glass, and the rest echo him.

 

Syldor sees the smiles on the faces of his two oldest children, perhaps the most carefree he has ever seen them since the day they appeared on the doorstep of Syngorn College, young and lost and angry. He wonders how they have changed since then, marvels at being able to have a civil conversation with at least one of his estranged children once more, and thinks: _to the best, indeed._

 

 

 

 

 

_((“Tell them stories… You must tell them true stories, and everything will be well; just tell them stories.”_

_\- Phillip Pullman, “The Amber Spyglass”))_

_(fin.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy chinese new year everyone i can't believe i managed to finish this fic (with a chapter that's TWICE as long as the previous one, jesus). it's been a Journey, and i can't say i'm going to miss desperately writing chapters in bits and pieces after coming home from work, but i've put so much of my soul into this fic and every comment + kudos on this baby of mine is really, really appreciated. thank you so much for coming with me on this wild trip, it's been a good ride.
> 
> an extended author's commentary to the characters is now up in the next chapter!
> 
> since all the names can get quite confusing, here's a quick guide to vox machina's daemons:  
> vax'ildan: nera (raven)  
> vex'halia: trinket (brown bear)  
> percival: vesper (white wolf)  
> grog: phillip (samoyed)  
> pike: seren (honey badger)  
> keyleth: mynxi (albatross)  
> scanlan: aes (meerkat)


	5. extended author's commentary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An extended author's commentary on the various characters and daemons in _we'll see the same sun on the rise_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This guide was uploaded at the same time as Chapter 4, the final chapter in this fic. If you haven't read Chapter 4 yet, do hit the "previous chapter" button!

**AN INTRODUCTORY NOTE**

 

His Dark Materials has always been a passion of mine, and it has been wonderful trying to meld it with the Vox Machina story in a way that showcases the best of both universes. Many, many thanks go to the inimitable irrationaljasmine, betareader extraordinaire, for putting up with my humongous chapters and general complaining whenever the muse was lost.

 

The underlying inspiration for this fic (and also the title-song for the fic  _and_ Chapter 4) is [Tokyo Sunrise by LP](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NFnIuBB9YAo), one of the songs listed by Marisha Ray in her 2016 official playlist for Keyleth. It’s an absolutely emotional and beautiful song, and I would definitely recommend giving it a listen if you haven’t before.

 

The discussion below contains **spoilers** for _we’ll see the same sun on the rise_ , HDM canon, and also the events of Campaign 1. Proceed with caution if you’re not caught up on any of the above, and don’t wish to be spoilered.

 

~

 

**VOX MACHINA**

_ Vax’ildan Vessar _

_Daemon: Nera (female), initially unsettled but in the preferred form of a black raven; eventually settled into a storm petrel._

As the fate-touched hero of the Raven Queen, I knew I wanted Vax to take centre stage in the prophecy underlying this adaptation as well – hence the “man with many daemons” prophecy. Nera being unsettled was one of the few non-negotiable things I wanted to feature in the story from the very start – in HDM, it seems that daemons settle upon “maturity”, which is a rather fluid concept. Vax in canon is someone who’s figuring out who he is and what he stands for all through the campaign, and I thought it would be fitting that his daemon is figuring herself out alongside him.

The name “Nera” is pulled from a branch of D&D lore, and is one of the names that the Raven Queen has been called by. Coincidentally, it is also the feminine conjugation, in Italian, of the adjective for “black”, which is very fitting for Nera’s initial preferred form, the black raven. In canon, when Vax first makes his deal with the Raven Queen, she haunts him everywhere and defines his life’s purpose, and I wanted to reflect that in the shape of his daemon. But I didn’t want to have Nera settle as a raven, because I think that the Raven Queen, while an important part of Vax’s identity and story, is not his defining characteristic. Vax is rather unflinchingly loyal, willing to put himself in danger to keep his party members safe; even after the initial battle with Vecna, instead of passing on into a peaceful afterlife, he chose to return to Vox Machina’s side. It’s this trait that led me to choose the storm petrel as Nera’s final form – as Vax explains to Keyleth, the storm petrel returns to the same nesting place year after year. Incidentally, Nera being a storm petrel also makes her a sea-bird of a similar nature to Mynxi, Keyleth’s daemon. Nera and Vax are not separated, but are able to stretch the bond between them further than regular humans can.

After the events of the main story, Vax is offered the job of Consul, a position which was vacated following the gruesome murder of Tiberius Stormwind at the hands of the Conclave. I like to imagine that Vax doesn’t jump and automatically accept the offer, but gets browbeaten into it eventually. Consuls don’t get a lot of attention in HDM canon, and not much is known about how they’re chosen or how they settle on a place to build the Consulate, but I think that Vax would probably choose to set up his Consulate much closer to Zephrah than Tiberius had, to be closer to Keyleth. Together with Scanlan, I’d like to think that he managed to broker a more firm alliance between the _ashari_ and the armoured bears. He and Keyleth aren’t married (yet), but Vax wears a promise-ring of a similar design to her crown – a less ostentatious version of the antler tattoo that canon!Vax gets in the one-year timeskip to serve as a tangible marker of his love.

 

_ Vex’halia Vessar _

_Daemon: Trinket (male), a brown bear_

Vex was probably the easiest to create a daemon for. The brown bear is symbolic of courage and strength, and Trinket thus functions as a good solid foil to both the sometimes-insecure Vex, and the flightier Nera. It also allowed me to explore the ramifications of having a larger, conspicuous daemon – in the HDM books most people have small daemons, but to the best of my knowledge there isn’t any sort of rule saying people can’t have elephant-daemons or something equally big. Throughout the story, people identify Vex and the wider party by the bear-daemon first, a mirror to how Trinket attracts a lot of attention and causes his fair share of problems in canon, _eg_ when trying to traverse dungeons. Unfortunately for HDM!Vex, she doesn’t have the same useful necklace that canon!Vex has to store Trinket as needed.

Trinket and Vex are not separated, but like Vax, they can stretch the bond between them a little further than regular humans. This is especially helpful where Vex needs to get into a narrow or crowded space, and can’t bring Trinket with her.

As one of the three champions in the final battle with Vecna, I wanted Vex to have one of the three significant items in HDM ( _ie_ , the three items that form the titles of the books). Vex thus has the Amber Spyglass, which has the same function in HDM canon in that it can see Dust.

After the events of the main story, Vex continues adventuring. Her most frequent adventuring partner is Percy, whose balloon makes the travelling process much easier to bear; though she also goes on expeditions with Grog. Percy is her favourite partner because he helps her sweet-talk the Colleges into giving them funding for their journey. There’s something growing between them, but Vex hasn’t gotten around to slapping a label on it just yet.

 

_ Keyleth _

_Daemon: Mynxi (male), an albatross_

Keyleth was the first character I envisioned in this HDM adaptation, as pretty much a direct mirror of the witch-queen Serafina Pekkala from HDM canon. Like Serafina, Keyleth finds herself thrust into Queenship halfway through the journey, and has to adapt accordingly. Serafina falling in love with the Gyptian Farder Coram and wanting so badly to give up being a witch to stay with him for his lifetime is one of the HDM side-stories that really killed me, and I wanted Keyleth and Vax’s relationship to play a foil to that. But whereas Serafina and Farder Coram got a tragic ending, Vax and Keyleth find a compromise that lets them live a relatively happy life.

Although Mynxi in canon is the name for Keyleth’s tiger form, in this ‘verse Keyleth is a witch, and it would be terribly cruel to give her a daemon that could not fly. So instead, Mynxi has taken the form of an albatross, a sea-bird that is also a powerful flier and built for long-term flight. An “albatross” can also be a metaphor for a kind of psychological burden that feels like a curse, which is a pretty good mirror for Keyleth’s fear of losing those she loves holding her back from doing what would make her happy. Mynxi is also more reasonable, usually functioning as the head to Keyleth’s heart; his speech patterns are also slightly more formal than Keyleth herself. As with all witches, Mynxi and Keyleth are separated, and have been since she was a child.

After the events of the main story, Keyleth returns to her sisters to lead them as their Queen. Working together with the Pyrah and Vesrah, they find a few Terrah witches who had fled the massacre, and help their fourth sister-clan rebuild once more on the ashes of their lost ones. Keyleth begins to promulgate teachings on the foundation of magic, making sure that it is common _ashari_ knowledge that magic resides in the soul and not the body, in an effort to prevent another Raishan from happening. When she can sneak away from her duties, she goes to find Vax, the newly-appointed witch-Consul. They don’t really get to go on many normal dates, but Keyleth specially enchants him a branch of cloud-pine and takes him flying around the forests near his Consulate. As far as possible, she tries to attend College events in her official capacity, mostly as an excuse to see the rest of her friends.

 

_ Percival de Rolo _

_Daemon: Vesper (female), a white wolf_

If Keyleth is Serafina Pekkala, then I knew I wanted Percy to be her Lee Scoresby – Texan aeronaut extraordinaire. The spray of sending-flowers Percy finds in his coat are directly taken from the flowers Serafina takes from her crown and gives to Lee, telling him to use them to call her in his time of greatest need.

Percy was perhaps the hardest character to write. He is a survivor of this fic’s version of the Bolvangar Project – children kept in pens in the north to have daemon-experiments done on them. Percy starts out with his traumatic memories of Whitestone as a crippling force, rather like in canon; after the Whitestone arc, however, he begins to recover. Having Percy suffer a relapse/flashback at the death of Ripley was meant to be a call-back to what happened on Glintshore in canon, where Ripley is murdered but takes Percy down with her – here, as in canon, it is Vex who calls him back.

Vesper is named for one of Percy’s murdered sisters. I toyed initially with the idea of calling her Cassandra instead, but as the only other surviving de Rolo from canon I wanted to leave the option open to have Cassandra as Percy’s actual flesh-and-blood sister, which did happen in the end. Vesper’s form is a reflection of HDM canon and/or fanon that people who have had traumatic/abusive childhoods often have wolf daemons. At the same time, though, a lone wolf is usually more dangerous and aggressive than a pack-wolf due to the time they have spent in isolation – this perhaps describes Percy best as a person whose experiences have made them just a touch darker, a touch more dangerous, than your average person. Due to the experiments done when they were children, the soul-bond between them is stretched further than a normal human’s, though they are not strictly separated.

I like to think that Percy probably recognises his attraction to Vex rather quickly, but chooses not to do anything about it for the time being, preferring to bide his time and see what happens. He takes Vex with him to travel the continent by balloon, ostensibly to carry out research on Dust, but also to hunt down the remnants of the Conclave and making sure that they either die or face justice for their crimes. And through it all, he keeps an ear to the ground for any whisper of his sister, Cassandra de Rolo, who he has not seen since the night he was taken away by the Conclave.

 

_ Pike Trickfoot _

_Daemon: Seren (male), a honey badger_

The character of Lyra Belacqua was split across several members of Vox Machina, but it is perhaps Pike who has inherited the most of Lyra, most notably her ability to read the alethiometer by grace. I also borrowed from the scene in the world of the dead where Lyra has to find Roger, but has to leave her daemon Pantalaimon on the shores of the river in the world of the living – in the story, Pike is forcibly separated from her daemon, and manages to find a key piece of their puzzle before she is reunited with him again.

It is difficult to translate the myriad fantasy races and magic-users in D&D into the world of HDM, where almost everyone is human, and really only the witch-clans use magic. I eventually decided to make Pike a Gyptian as a callback to her roots as a sailor on a pirate-ship. It adds an interesting dynamic to the story, because Gyptians are usually portrayed in HDM as side-characters, people who are fishermen and washerwomen and nursemaids rather than Scholars and nobles and explorers, and I wanted to have a Gyptian take centre stage for once.

Pike’s daemon Seren is named for Sarenrae, and also means “star” in Welsh, a reference to Pike being the chosen of the Everlight. He takes the form of a honey-badger – while cuddly and furry, the honey badger is actually a highly vicious predator who eats things such as snakes, and even fights younger lions to steal their kills. I thought it to be a fitting choice for Pike, who looks unassuming but actually packs a serious punch, just like a _monstah_. Following the events of the story, Seren and Pike are now effectively separated like a witch and their daemon, though she never sends him further than five feet away from her at all times, for fear that they may be separated again.

After the events of the main story, Pike has to return the alethiometer. Although she has lost the ability to read the alethiometer by grace, her emotional and spiritual attachment to it convince her to accept Osysa’s offer of an apprenticeship, and she now spends most of her days reading huge tomes on alethiometry, and memorising the different layers of meaning for each of the alethiometer’s thirty-six symbols. Eventually when Osysa retires to move back to the Frostweald, Pike will take over her position as the Cassington Scholar and resident alethiometrist of Vasselheim University.

 

_ Grog Strongjaw _

_Daemon: Phillip (male), a Samoyed_

Grog was another character for whom the HDM mirror came easily – much like the goliath herd, the Tartars in HDM are described as a race of northern-dwelling barbarian-people, preferring to solve most problems with axe and fist rather than with words. Grog is abandoned by his herd at a young age due to his strange daemon, and is later found washed up much further downstream by a pair of Gyptians – a younger Pike, and her grandfather Willhand.

The question of the gender of one’s daemon is interesting, because by convention a man’s daemon will be female and vice versa, though Pullman notes that there are a small percentage of people whose daemons will be the same gender as them. I’ve always viewed the opposite-gender thing as a balancing out of the _yin_ and the _yang_ of the soul; it seemed only fitting to me that Grog, a character who’s rather overwhelmingly _yang_ in personality, would end up with the unique male daemon.

Although the details on Tartarian daemons are not delved into too deeply in HDM lore, I imagine that they would largely be suited to the northern climates. At the same time, however, I wanted Grog’s daemon to reflect how he isn’t just a barbarian through and through, but that he has a rather gentle soul at his core (past all the beer and rage). The Samoyed is a dog originally originating from Siberia, but is presently rather common as a domesticated breed; I found it to be an interesting contrast to Percy’s daemon Vesper, another pure-white lupine daemon (white wolf). The contrast between Percy’s harsh childhood which defined the shape of his daemon, and Grog’s rough upbringing which ultimately could not outshine the true shape of his heart and soul, was also a rather interesting thing to explore. Phillip represents the more rational and thoughtful parts of Grog’s soul, as evidenced perhaps most clearly in the difference in speech patterns between him and Grog, as well as Phillip’s ability to catch on and run with things faster.

After the events of the main story, Grog is primarily based in Westruun, looking after Pike’s boat and helping out an increasingly frail Willhand. He misses the adventure he had with the rest of the group, and is always ready to go whenever Vex and Percy drop by Westruun to enlist his journeying or combat expertise for an expedition or two. He religiously attends every one of Pike’s conferences and presentations – though the guards at the gate of Vasselheim University initially were reluctant to allow a Tartar in Gyptian clothes to essentially gatecrash an academic event, they are eventually browbeaten into accepting this strange occurrence as normal.

 

_ Scanlan Shorthalt _

_Daemon: Aes (female), a meerkat_

Oh, Scanlan. From the moment I originally envisioned Pike as Lyra, I knew I wanted Scanlan to be her Will Parry. It is for this reason that Scanlan receives this fic’s version of the Subtle Knife; unlike the other two major artifacts from HDM canon, the Knife has been substantially remodeled and influenced by Campaign 1. I knew I didn’t want to have the Knife’s capability to open other worlds, but I’ve kept its ability to slice through Spectres, though it is no longer an all-cutting knife. The fact that it was forged by Artagan is also a callback to HDM canon, where the bear-king Iorek Byrnison re-forged the Knife after Will shattered it.

However, Scanlan also takes on certain traits of Lyra, namely her god-like ability to spin golden lies. Lyra being able to talk and/or lie her way out of any situation seemed to me a perfect fit for Scanlan’s insane charisma stats, and thus the nickname “Silvertongue”, originally given to Lyra by Iorek Byrnison for her charismatic ability to speak and persuade, was given to Scanlan by Artagan in the story.

Scanlan’s daemon Aes is named for his Marquesian alias in the time that he was away. Her form as a meerkat was initially inspired by Timon and Pumbaa from the Lion King, with the initial intention that Grog would have the matching warthog daemon. Later realizing that a warthog would not have survived long in the cold north, Grog lost the warthog, but the idea of Scanlan with a sarcastic meerkat-daemon at his collar seemed too right to ignore. Her wit and acerbic tongue serve to ground Scanlan, who might otherwise be lost in a haze of his own making.

Immediately after the story ends, Scanlan goes on a grand solo tour of greater Exandria. He eventually makes his way down to Westruun and stays with Grog on Pike’s boat for a little. It was with his help that Grog was finally able to enter into Vasselheim University – a little smile, a wink, and a discreet gold coin go a long way towards making guards turn a blind eye. Later on in life, Artagan seeks him out and offers him a unique position as a diplomatic representative to the bear-kingdom. In this position, and working closely with Vax (who by this time has settled into his role as witch-Consul), they revive the old alliance between the _panserbjørne_ and the _ashari_ ; Scanlan will also take steps to opening up trade between the bears and the nearby human cities. When he eventually passes away, his knife the Mythcarver is returned to the bears, who melt it down and use it to create a small little memorial statute, in the shape of a meerkat, next to the newly-introduced official human residence within their colony.

 

_ Taryon Darington _

_Daemon: None_

Tary as an armoured bear was something I did not initially plan for. While trying to figure out who his daemon would be and where the rest of Vox Machina would run into him, I realised that Tary’s passion for engineering could parallel very well with the smithing skills of the armoured bears. Present!Tary no longer loves to smith as much as he loves telling stories, and so with the help of an enchanted scribe-automaton, he leaves to set out on his own.

As bears live rather longer than humans, Tary becomes the ruling diplomatic representative for the bear colony following the death of Scanlan “Silvertongue” Shorthalt.

 

_ Tiberius Stormwind _

_Daemon: Lockheed (male), a peacock_

Oh, Tiberius. I loved his character when he first appeared in Campaign 1, and it is really rather sad how things turned out in the end. I wanted Tiberius’ character here to reflect his close bond with Keyleth; combined with his desire to become someone important, and canonical ability to do magic, I decided that being a witch-Consul would probably be the best fit.

His daemon Lockheed is a male peacock, one of the flashiest breeds of bird out there, and a good representation of Tiberius’ occasional tendency to spam sorcery points and fancy spells everywhere. Even more prim and proper than Tiberius himself, Lockheed keeps him grounded. Lockheed and Tiberius, being the children of a witch, are separated from each other.

 

~

 

**THE CONCLAVE**

 

Converting the antagonists from Campaign 1 over to the HDM setting was challenging, because there is a key villain for each arc, whereas in HDM there’s really only one main antagonist – the Church/Magisterium. I eventually decided that the Magisterium equivalent for the purposes of this story would take the name of the Conclave; however, it combines the main antagonists from three of the major Campaign 1 plot arcs: Ripley and the Briarwoods, the Chroma Conclave, and Vecna.

 

_ Raishan _

_Daemon: Unnamed, a vulture_

As I began planning out this story before I had fully finished the Vecna arc, Raishan remained the most captivating antagonist from Campaign 1 in my mind, and I decided it would be the most interesting to place her centre stage in this adaptation. She is the parallel to Marisa Coulter in position of prestige within the Conclave, though her motivations are more twisted: rejected from young by a witch mother and human father, she became corrupted by greed and desire after the Whisper reached out through the veil and promised her magic in exchange for freeing it. I wanted to use this to reflect canon Raishan, who despite expressly stating that she has no desire to rule over Exandria like the Cinder King, followed in his footsteps anyway, because of his promise to cure her of her disease. Raishan is a conniving, intelligent creature, but she has also shown herself to be given to desperation when pushed into a corner.

Raishan’s back-story is the only one that is fully fleshed out in the story, and it is one that received many changes from the time the story was first created to the time it was written down in the final chapter. I knew I wanted Raishan to have ties to the _ashari_ , as a mirror for the way she ingratiated herself with the druids in Pyrah before betraying them to free Thordak. The scars on her skin from the death-curse were a relatively new addition, and although I seem to have a distinct memory of death-curses being mentioned in HDM canon, I have not been able to find them anywhere when I re-look the source material. Nevertheless, it made for a good motivation to twist her against the _ashari_ , and is also a mirror to the curse of Melora that was laid upon her in canon.

I struggled a good long while with the decision to make Raishan a trans male-to-female character. I knew I wanted her to have some connection to the _ashari_ , to reflect how in canon she spends a good number of years learning from the Pyrah druids. At the same time, I knew that because of the way HDM witches work making Raishan born female would mean that she would be a witch herself, which would make it harder for her to be a mysterious antagonist, given that she would be known already to the witches. It would also make it harder to justify her motivations in not just reaching for power, but destroying the very mission that the witches hold dear (protecting the veil). In the end, I decided that Raishan’s twisted motive and hatred would feature best if she had been betrayed by the witches before; at the same time, however, I didn’t want it to be so black-and-white that the witches were blameless and Raishan was entirely in the wrong. The eventual backstory is what I ended up coming up with, and it also would cohere nicely with a personal headcanon that I have, namely that magic reflects the soul and not the body. I hope I managed to do it some justice.

Raishan’s daemon is a vulture, a carrion-eating bird of prey. I wanted to symbolise how Raishan’s soul is _ashari_ even if she doesn’t recognise/realise it, and the best way to do it would be to give her an avian daemon just like the witches themselves.

 

_ Anna Ripley _

_Daemon: Unnamed, a golden monkey_

Ripley inherited the aspects of Marisa Coulter that did not go to Raishan – namely a monkey-daemon, an interest in experimentation and daemons, the creation and use of the silver guillotine, and a dispassionate attitude towards those who she does not hold dear. The spectre of Ripley is very real all through the entire campaign, and I wanted to reflect that even a little. Hence, even though the characters first encounter her in the first chapter, their fear of her lingers even long after she has disappeared, all the way until they encounter her again.

Ripley’s interest in the Conclave’s work is entirely scientific; unlike her co-workers, the Briarwoods, who want to harness the energy of Dust for some extraneous purpose, Ripley genuinely just wants to know what happens if she prods it this way and that. This makes her truly dangerous – like a knife that could be dangerous in the wrong hands, her tendency to waive her morals for science leads her straight to Raishan, who beguiles her with the promise of test subjects in exchange for use of the silver guillotine.

 

_ The Briarwoods _

_Daemons: A matched pair of hyenas_

The Briarwoods, though the big bogeyman of the second major Campaign 1 arc, became more of side-characters in this fic. A pair of scientists, their aims in this adaptation are to experiment with the energy of Dust, and use it to rip open the fabric between the dimensions. In this respect, they’ve definitely bought more into Raishan’s veil-tearing goal than Ripley, though they’re trying to come up with their own way of doing it for reasons of scientific pride.

While Delilah in this adaptation is your standard scientist, I wanted to make Sylas just a _little_ different from normal, to parallel his canon vampiric nature. The idea of him not conforming to societal norms with respect to daemons, and interactions with daemons, was brought in to show how he does things that regular humans would consider absolutely taboo; it also had the side-effect of showing, early on, many of the unspoken norms about interacting with the daemon of another. It provides also an interesting contrast to the next time Vax has someone lay hands on his daemon; the first time, it’s to trap him; the second time, it’s to free him from a (self-imposed) trap.

Hyenas are nocturnal, and scavengers by nature. I thought having hyena daemons would suit the Briarwoods, first because Sylas is canonically undead, but also because parts of the hyena were long thought to boost love and fertility and serve a medicinal purpose; and they have no fear of feeding on human corpses. The matched pair is also something unique – a married couple does not need to have the same daemon, and in fact usually will have a pair of complementary daemons instead of identical. To have these two people have the same soul shows their codependency on each other, and how much they have defined themselves by each other.

 

_ The Whisper _

Vecna is reduced mainly to an amorphous concept in the sky in this adaptation, partly because delving into the whole ascension story would possibly trigger all the religious commentary that lurks just below the surface in HDM canon. Nevertheless, the prophesised items are still instrumental to its downfall, much like the divine trammels in the campaign itself.

The defeat of the Whisper at the point when Keyleth and Vax touch each others’ daemons is actually one of the first scenes I envisioned for this adaptation, and is an almost-direct parallel of a scene from _The Amber Spyglass_ where Will and Lyra, amidst the threat of Dust leaking out of the mulefa’s world, share their first kiss and touch each others’ daemons, and cause the Dust to stop leaking away. It’s always been one of my favourite scenes, despite the dodgy physics/experimental theology behind it.

 

~

__

**(SOME) OTHER CHARACTERS**

_ Kima _

_Daemon: Xymor (male), a black panther_

Kima is perhaps the one character closest to her canon self. Born to a family of Scholars, she decided early on that she would rather beat shit up than sit around and debate theory with a bunch of people in robes. In order to keep tabs on her, her parents eventually suggested her as the official courier of the alethiometer between Vasselheim and Emon; it’s steady money, so Kima hasn’t complained yet.

Xymor is another name for Bahamut, and he takes the form of a black panther, which is a symbol of a fierce guardian.

 

_ Allura Vysoren _

_Daemon: Drake (male), a red panda_

Most of the government people from Campaign 1 became Scholars, because in HDM that’s where a lot of the authority and power comes from, and Allura is no exception. In HDM canon, it is said that there are very few female Scholars – and in fact Lyra views them with great disdain as a child – but I made the deliberate choice for the Scholar job to be gender-blind; hence, almost every Scholar directly mentioned in the story is female, with the exception of Murtin and Syldor.

Drake, Allura’s daemon, is named for her old party-member in canon. He takes the form of a red panda as it represents patience, wisdom, and gentleness – all traits that could describe her perfectly.

She is not yet married to Kima in this story, but you can bet that there is _definitely_ a ring burning a hole in the pocket of her Scholar robes.

 

_ Cerkonos of the Pyrah _

_Daemon: Unnamed, a peregrine falcon_

As the other trans male-to-female character in this story, I wanted Cerkonos to serve as a foil to Raishan, to show what Raishan might have been like had her path not been steeped in hatred and anger. Cerkonos is thus born a boy to a witch-mother, but discovers early on that her soul is actually female, and begins to exhibit bouts of accidental magic, until her mother brings her back from their home in a human town to the Pyrah, and has them teach Cerkonos to control her magic.

As the leader of the _ashari_ clan known for its combat prowess, I gave Cerkonos a bird of prey daemon – specifically a peregrine falcon, one of the best fliers out there, and a pretty fierce bird as well.

 

_ Vilya, Voice of the Tempest _

_Daemon: Korrin, a sparrow_

Given that the witches are an all-female race, it made sense that the parent still with Keyleth would be her father and not her mother. Vilya, a relatively young witch-queen, met the Consul before Tiberius at a diplomatic event and fell head over heels in love. Although she bore him a son and they lived fifty-odd happy years together, his human nature caught up to him and he passed away, leaving Vilya so mired in grief that she would forget her daughter from time to time. At the start of the story, Vilya is mostly recovered, but has her bad days from time to time. Keyleth knows she can’t fix her mother, but she’s there with a warm blanket and a cup of steaming herbal infusion whenever she finds her mother sitting by the cliff-side and lost in thought.

I debated for a while whether to make Korrin Keyleth’s father, or Vilya’s daemon, in this adaptation. Eventually, I decided that I wanted to have one lifetime where Korrin and Vilya stay together till the end, which would not have been possible were he a human; hence, Korrin became Vilya’s daemon, the other half of her soul.

 

_ Syldor Vessar _

_Daemon: Unmentioned_

Syldor, I feel, is quite a misunderstood character in canon. Sure, he’s a right asshole to his children, but you can tell that he still cares for them in his awkward, prickly way. I wanted to reflect that here, where Syldor, an experimental theologist, tries his best to force his children into a similar career path ~~(just like an Asian parent)~~ , only to have them rebel and do something completely different just because. He does this primarily because he’s just really bad at child-raising, and thinks scolding and disappointment is a way to get results when parenting; much later on he realises this has alienated his children, and at the end of the story we see him beginning to make amends.

Syldor has two children from his first marriage to a young merchant’s daughter named Elaina – Vax and Vex. Their marriage does not last, and Elaina takes the children with her; by the time Syldor learns of her death due to severe illness, and takes in the children, they have been allowed to run wild up and down the countryside and are absolutely not used to having to study and act like a Scholar. Now, he has a second wife (Devana), and a daughter (Velora); though Velora is still young and under tutelage, she one day dreams of embarking on adventures just like her cool half-siblings. This has caused Syldor no shortage of grief, as all he wants is one child to just take over his research so he can retire in peace, dammit. Now that (as at the end of the story) Vex is starting to dabble in Dust-related research, he has once again begun dreaming of retirement, pushing all his equipment to her and hightailing it out to some summer-house by the sea in a remote part of the continent.


End file.
